Poisoned by Gilt (10 page)

decisions" were exclusively where she wanted to be

"really hands-on."

Audrey was never much help when it came to

preparation or cleanup, but she did help me move the

buffet back into place to hide the one missing stripe

segment. As we inspected its placement, she said, "I'm

joking about your dating other men. You and Steve are

meant for each other. I have a sixth sense about these

things."

"Then why have you been married four times?"

She gave me a dirty look but said evenly, "My powers are only effective when used to match other couples."

"Ah. Well, I think your powers are a tad out of focus

this time, I'm afraid. Unless I'm wildly off base, Steve's recently decided that his life is complicated enough as it

is, and he's going to start dating our glamorous divorcee client who's been chasing him for weeks. And even

if they don't date, there's always going to be some

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other single woman or unhappy not-single woman

chasing after him."

"Maybe so. But ultimately he's going to make the

smart choice and choose you. I'm absolutely certain."

"Well, thanks, Audrey. I'm touched by your loyalty. But

frankly, your pronouncement would have been more reassuring if you hadn't also insisted you were 'absolutely

certain' about the beige."

"In any case, the moral of this particular story is: Trust

what the experts tell you. And, Erin, you are the expert

with paint and interior design . . . but I am the expert at

matchmaking."

c h a p t e r
7

On Monday afternoon, Burke rose from his

seat on a pale green sofa as I entered the

lobby of the Earth Love headquarters, where we were

scheduled to meet for his hearing. He gave me a nervous

smile and pushed his wire-rim glasses into place.

"Thanks for doing this, Erin." His gaze lingered past my

shoulder to the doors, and I knew he was hoping that

Sullivan had come as well. Burke didn't ask me about

him, so I didn't volunteer the information that I had no

idea where Sullivan was, but that he would almost surely

not be joining us. The last time Sullivan and I had spo-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t
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ken, two hours ago, he was with our hands-on client,

Jennifer Fairfax, and I'd reiterated that he should let me

handle this hearing.

A receptionist escorted us to a small auditorium-style

room, where Walter Emory and two Earth Love executives were seated at a long table on the stage. Walter spotted us and beckoned for us to grab a seat in the front row.

We did so and waited, Burke a one-man band of jitters.

Some fifteen minutes later, Walter said, "Let's get

started." By then about thirty people were in the audience, and because it was cold outside and yet none of

them had been wearing coats, I figured they must have

been Earth Love employees. As best I could tell, there

was only one newspaper reporter in attendance, although

there were camera crews from all the local TV stations.

An environmental engineer at Earth Love led things

off, sitting witness-style in a chair on the opposite side of

the stage from Walter and his two de facto judges. She

spoke about the predicted range of meter readings for the

types of heating, cooling, and passive solar systems in the

house. She said that all findings were consistent with her

expectations.

Next, Burke was called upon to take his turn on the

hot seat. He said that he absolutely did not tamper with

his meters or misrepresent the source of the water for his

nonpotable water usage. (Apparently Richard had accused Burke of diverting water from a nearby brook to

water his lawn. Earth Love required that only "gray water"--runoff or recycled water from one's own property--could be used.) Burke went on to say that I was

here on his behalf and would be happy to testify as well.

Walter conferred very briefly with his cohorts and

said that wouldn't be necessary. He then dismissed the

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charges against Burke, pending the discovery of significant evidence to the contrary of his ruling, and announced that the awards banquet would be held a week

from Saturday, at which time the contest winner would

be announced.

That was it for Burke's hearing, which was about as

undramatic as it could be. The newspaper reporter asked

Burke for his reaction, and he replied, "I'm glad this formality is behind me. I knew all along that I'd never done

anything wrong." The reporter nodded, thanked him,

and headed over to interview Walter Emory. Only one of

the TV reporters bothered to approach, asking Burke if

he felt that this hearing had something to do with

Richard's death. Burke answered simply: "No," and

walked away. The reporter stammered for a moment, but

let him go. The rest of the crews packed up quickly, their

reporters grumbling that this story was too dull to air.

Clearly, Burke's fears that he was going to be dragged

through the mud were not coming to pass.

He and I had parked on opposite sides of the building,

which wrapped around a large courtyard. As we parted

company in the lobby, he said, "It's awful that Thayers

wound up dying so suddenly. I know that under the circumstances this sounds petty, but I would have liked to at

least defend myself against whatever evidence he felt he

had against me. This way it's like . . . having to show your

grades to the professor to get an A in the class, when you

already knew you had a perfect score." He shook his head,

and added, "Or rather, you show 'em to the dean, after the

professor's died. So you wind up feeling ridiculous and

selfish for caring that you got an A in the first place."

"Maybe so, but ultimately what matters is that you

earned your perfect score."

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"I guess that's how I have to look at it." He smiled a little, said, "Thanks again, Erin," and headed out a door to

the side parking lot. I crossed the slate floor, which I

knew had been built from salvaged roof tiles, and headed

out toward my van. Today's perfunctory proceedings,

without so much as a mention of Richard's death, felt

heartless and empty, as though we were a gaggle of geese

merely reforming our V formation a few seconds after

one of our own had been gunned down. On the other

hand, maybe we were worse than geese. Wasn't there a

Jack London story about a goose staying by its wounded

mate's side until death claimed them both?

As I made my weary trek across the parking lot, I decided that neither extreme was correct, as is so often

the case. Walter should have said a few words about

Richard's death and how none of us wanted to be there

under these sad circumstances, yet the underlying principles driving this contest were so important to Richard

and to the world that I knew he would have wanted us to

soldier on.

I was jarred from my reverie by the sight of Sullivan

emerging from his van a few rows down from my own van.

I hurried over to him, glad that he couldn't read my mind

at that moment; I was picturing myself in the role of the

goose, rushing to her wounded gander's side. "Hi. There's

no need to go in. They already exonerated Burke."

"They did?" He sounded disappointed.

"Of course. There was no evidence. Why? Did you

find something incriminating?"

"Not really. But I'm still going to go talk to the judges."

"Why?"

"Someone needs to stand up on Richard's behalf. May

as well be me."

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"No, it shouldn't be you! For one thing, you've got a

conflict of interest regarding our client. For another

thing, like I said, it's too late. The decision has already

been reached." To my immense relief, beyond Sullivan's

shoulder, I could see the string of news vans heading

down the access road; the last thing I wanted was for this

disagreement about the innocence of our client to end

up on the ten o'clock news.

"If I don't speak up for him, Richard comes out looking like a crazy old fool," he countered. "Like he drank

poisonous, metallic paint just so he could freak out his

class, and he made wild, baseless accusations against a finalist. He deserves better than that."

"I see your point, Steve. I do. And I feel for your loss.

With all my heart, I wish things were different. But the

problem is, you and I are supposed to be supporting our

paying client right now, not testifying against him . . .

when you have no proof that he did a single thing

wrong."

"That can't be helped. My loyalties are with Richard.

Nobody else is going to speak for him. He was a good

man and he deserves to have his side of the story told.

Furthermore, I'm keeping an eye on our client from here

on out in order to gather murder evidence, just like you

would if our positions were reversed."

"I wouldn't be testifying behind our client's back!"

"And I wouldn't be buying his sob story. He hired

Richard to rid his former household of carcinogens. His

son died anyway. I think he blames Richard and finally

took his revenge."

"Some four years later? And on that very same day, he

tells me that he was wrong for how he treated Richard?"

Despite my best efforts, my anger was only rising. "You

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know, Sullivan, maybe we should look at what we actually know instead of speculating. We know that Richard

went berserk and was making wild, baseless accusations

toward you when he found out Burke was a finalist in the

contest. Why is it hard for you to believe that Richard

also made wild, baseless accusations toward Burke?"

Sullivan met my gaze, but his expression never softened. We both knew I'd made an excellent point. He

turned away, calling over his shoulder, "I've got to go say

my piece before the judges scatter. I'll see you later."

"When?"

He ignored me and entered the building.

Though neither he nor anyone else could hear me, I

retorted, "You'd make a lousy goose, Sullivan!" If I was

mortally wounded, he'd desert me to go honk at the

hunter. Then we'd both get shot and die alone.

While tightening my coat collar, I employed my triedand-true calming tricks--I counted to ten and uttered my

silent confidence-and-optimism mantra. Individually,

we'd both been through rougher times than this. We

would survive. With a heavy dose of luck, so would

Sullivan and Gilbert Designs. But one thing was now

abundantly clear to me: The aftereffects of Richard's

death were going to weigh heavily on us until the killer

was behind bars. Richard's murder needed to be solved as

quickly as possible. I was in the position to possibly glean

some insider information, which I could pass along to

the police. I also had some free time, because Sullivan

obviously intended to work on the Fairfax assignment

alone. I could start by speaking with the two other finalists: Margot Troy and Darren Campesio.

I had some fences to mend with Margot, so I dialed

her number on my cell phone. She was as brusque as

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ever and gave me the impression that she was surprised it

took me this long to call and arrange a meeting. (One of

the hardest parts of running a business that lives and dies

on referrals is having to eat crow when, if anything, you

should be the one serving it.)

I arrived at her place some fifteen minutes later. It was

a two-story, three-bedroom house, featuring the earthtone-colored stucco that had become very popular for

Colorado residences built in the last decade. Unlike

Darren's underground home or Burke's straw-bale structure, Margot's house looked to the unpracticed eye like

any other home in Crestview. Yet she had maximized

every inch to harness passive and active solar energy. The

external walls were two inches thicker than standard

homes to allow for extra insulation, and the foundation

and attic used an ingenious system of energy-efficient

heating and cooling. But truth be told, I found such

house construction details about as interesting as a

popcorn-textured ceiling. What really got me excited

about Margot's house were its furnishings. (Well, that

and the kitchen, which I'd designed for her two years

ago.) A visit to her home was like going to a new exhibition at a first-rate museum; there was always something

delightful to look at, but at the same time, there was also

that museumlike look-but-don't-touch aura, which always kept me from feeling at ease. Homes have a way of

taking on the personalities of their owners, and Margot's

aura was made of barbed wire.

She invited me inside. We got off to a great start while

Margot took me on a tour to show me her favorite acquisitions of the past several months. Despite her wealth,

Margot loved to frequent rummage sales and consignment shops, and she studied the classified section of the

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