Poisoned by Gilt (14 page)

"Well, not counting the two of us."

I grinned. "Right. I just meant that they'd be worth

considering replacing if they were ten-plus years old,

because of energy efficiency. And we'll do whatever

else you'd like to do in addition to that. But the truth

about green homes is that the greenest home is the

one that's already built."

"Maybe so, but this home is missing one wall and a

sizable portion of its roof."

"True. But when you apply that same axiom to a

remodel, it's the one that uses the fewest new materials."

"Oh, I see." She scanned the damaged roof, window,

and wall. "In that case, we'll concentrate on rebuilding

only the damaged areas and building the breakfast

nook there." She pointed to the corner where there

were cracks in the walls from the heaviest part of the

branch."Are you saying that we'd be better off continuing the heart-of-pine floorboards rather than going with

bamboo or cork throughout?"

"Almost definitely, just because there's such a small

percentage of the pine that's likely to have been dam-D o m e s t i c B l i s s
1 0 9

aged. By the same token, we should order replacement

cabinetry from the same manufacturer, instead of all

new cabinets throughout. We just need to ensure that

they use formaldehyde-free materials for the shelves

and drawers .. . maybe wheatboard or strawboard, if

that's an option."

She nodded and scanned the ceiling."You know, I've

always wanted a skylight over my sink. And we can

make a combination greenhouse/breakfast nook with

lots of windows."

"That'd be wonderful. That's what's known as daylighting--when we reduce our power use by taking advantage of daylight." I stopped, realizing she was well

familiar with the term and didn't need a lecture from

me. But as I scanned the room, I made a mental inventory. We could use individually controlled task lighting so

we wouldn't waste electricity illuminating more space

than we'd need, and we'd install fluorescent bulbs.

We'd add insulation when we rebuilt the wall, and all

the new windows would have high-performance glazing. Plus we'd make sure we could create cross breezes

through the new kitchen. "Since the sink's a goner, we

can consider getting rid of the garbage disposal and installing a recycling center in one cabinet."

"I could live without a disposal," Audrey said thoughtfully.

"And we could construct the greenhouse to have an

external door. We can heat the room exclusively with

passive solar energy and close it off at night. That way,

too, we can do wonders with the floor . . . put down

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heat-absorbing slate. I'm sure I can find nice tiles at the

reclamation yard."

"Hildi will love a nice sunny room with a warm floor."

"She will. It'll be like her own private sauna."

"I can't wait. I'm so glad this happened!"

"You are?"

"Yes. Work with me, here, Erin. This is how I avoid needing mood-enhancing drugs."

"In that case, this storm damage is a stroke of good

luck. Just not for the tree."

"Well, no. But this was an act of nature, so it must have

been its time." A chilly breeze swept through the room.

"Let's seal off this room once we get my dishes and

cookware moved into the dining room. I've got that

thick roll of plastic in the storage room of the basement,

and some duct tape. Good thing you didn't quite finish

painting the dining room. Now we'll be able to tape the

plastic to the walls without worrying about damaging

the paint."

"Yet another positive take on this."

"And I've got the perfect architect in mind. We'll be

killing two stones at once when I hire him to work for us."

I chuckled a little at her deliberate botching of the

two-birds cliche."Really? Who?"

"Jeremy Greene."

"Audrey! I consider him a key suspect in Richard

Thayers's death!"

"Precisely! And what better way to get information

out of him than by hiring him?"

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he next morning, it was strange and upsetting for

Tme to enter the dining room and realize that we

would be using this cramped, claustrophobic room as

our makeshift kitchen for weeks to come. The space was

the typical clutter catastrophe that normally caused people to solicit my services. Last night, I'd urged Audrey to

put everything in storage except those few items that she

knew we would need for the short term. Yet she must

have dragged armloads of stuff into the room the minute

I'd gone to bed. Two full sets of plates, including her

fine china, were stacked in the corners. We were now

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equipped to serve a dinner party of sixteen, provided the

dinner guests ignored the fact that we had no oven or

cooktop, and that seven of the eight chairs at the table

were either filled or blocked by the complete contents of

her sizable pantry. Cans, pasta boxes, cereal boxes, and

spices were piled everywhere, and cookware, utensils,

and glasses sat on every flat surface.

Audrey had at least stuck with my directive to reserve

her sidebar for her essential small appliances, which

would temporarily serve as our only means to cook indoors. There I'd placed her coffeemaker (which was already doing its thing, thanks to the timer), her toaster, hot

plate, and electric frying pan. The microwave was too

large for the sidebar, but rested on the ice chest next to

the designated temporary home for the refrigerator.

Unfortunately, she'd also brought out the pasta maker,

the bread maker--which hadn't been used once in the

two years that I'd lived with her--two mixers, the ice

cream maker, and the blender. I was betting that the waffle iron was around here somewhere.

I heard Audrey open the front door, no doubt to retrieve the newspaper. She shuffled into the room in her

robe and snow boots, her nose buried in the paper. I

watched her nervously. She was taking her life into her

hands, given the numerous opportunities to trip over

something. Once she'd arrived safely, I considered quipping that she'd missed the opportunity to use the chandelier as storage hooks, but I didn't want to give her

any ideas and instead simply gave her a cheery, "Good

morning."

"Morning, Erin." She poured herself a cup of coffee.

"We got an even foot of snow yesterday. Maplewood's

been plowed, so you'll be able to drive to work. You're go-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t
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ing to want to read the front-page story first, though." She

handed me the A section of the Sentinel.

My vision was drawn to a photograph of Richard

Thayers at a rally, holding a placard that read World's

Watchdogs. The banner headline was "Ecoterrorism

Connection?"

"Oh, jeez. Sullivan's going to be on the rampage."

With considerable effort, I angled myself past the stacks

and boxes and into a chair to read the rest.

"Did you see the paper this morning?" Sullivan

promptly asked when I arrived at the office. "The

Sentinel printed nonsensical speculation by a batch of

talk-radio airheads, claiming Richard was an ecoterrorist.

And so some rational person got fed up and decided to

strike back by committing first-degree murder."

"I did see it." I hung up my coat and scarf, and made

my way to my desk chair. "They must have been talking

to someone in the same social circles as Asia McClure,

because she suggested the same possibility to me the

other day."

"Yeah, well, that woman's a crabapple with legs. The

story is total crap. No way was Richard an ecoterrorist."

"The papers never said that he was, you realize . . . only

that the killer could have assumed he was a member of

World's Watchdogs, because he was photographed at

their rally."

"Watchdogs has nothing to do with ecoterrorism, either. It was a misguided splinter group of theirs that

claimed responsibility for a handful of ecoterrorist acts."

"I know." That doesn't mean the killer knew that,

though, I said to myself.

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Sullivan remained tightly wound. "I called Walter

Emory and asked him to drop by to discuss this. He cares

as much about finding Richard's killer as I do."

That last remark stung me immeasurably. I couldn't

decide if objecting would make things better or worse,

but after a few seconds, I reluctantly let it pass. "What

time did he--"

The little brass bell above the door jingled as someone

opened it. Speak of the devil, I thought, as Walter

stepped inside, wearing the same coat and baggy pants

he'd worn on his last visit, although he'd added a hat with

Elmer Fudd earflaps to his ensemble.

"Morning, Walter," I said.

"Morning." He beamed at me. "Fine day, isn't it?" he

nearly shouted.

"If you like gray, dreary, and cold," Sullivan replied.

"When you get to be my age, any day you can get out

of bed counts as a fine morning." He removed his hat and

coat, but kept hold of both instead of using our coat tree.

"I've been worried about the story on the front page of

the Sentinel today," Sullivan said. "Did you read it?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Do you think there's any substance to the claim that

Richard could have been killed by an antiecoterrorist?"

"Kind of doubt it." Walter lowered himself into the

chair that was stationed halfway between our desks and

laid his coat and hat over his knees. "Don't you? I mean,

killing somebody for being a zealot when it comes to the

environment doesn't make a whole lot of sense."

"Yeah," Sullivan said, "but there've been less sensible

motives that have driven people to murder."

Walter crossed his arms and regarded him for a moment. "You see, Steve, here's the way I look at it. Of the

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two of us, Richard Thayers and myself, I'm the one with

the national reputation for lobbying to save our planet.

So if anyone's going to be a target of pro-pollution vigilantes, it's going to be me, not him."

"But whoever killed Richard Thayers probably isn't

someone who's focused in on the national news," I interposed. "It's more likely someone with a personal ax to

grind. Maybe someone who's just thinking locally, about

a perceived slight, or because his own business failed."

Someone like Matthew Hayes, I mused in silence.

"Ah. You mean someone who's got his or her selfinterest at heart, but who is spurred on by a big hatred of

environmentalists."

"Maybe," I replied with a shrug.

"Well, I guess that's always possible."

"Aren't you nervous?" Sullivan asked Walter.

"About?"

"About your own safety. If this is the work of someone

who detests your organization and all that it stands for,

don't you worry that you might have put yourself in the

crosshairs?"

Walter sat staring into space for a moment, his eyes

widening. "Hmm. In other words, I could be next in

line."

"I didn't mean to scare you," Sullivan said. "In fact,

Erin and I got the message 'You're next' on our own business card . . . with red paint splattered on it. We're in the

crosshairs ourselves."

"So you're just spreading the joy around, eh?" Walter

replied, giving me a jovial wink. In that moment, my appreciation for the man doubled.

"I'm sure nothing will happen, Walter," I said. "For all

we know, Richard's murder might have nothing to do

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with the contest, or his interest in conservation. But a little precaution and vigilance wouldn't hurt."

"Just keep your eyes open," Sullivan added.

"Right. I will." He grinned at me. "Thanks for your

concern, Erin. And don't worry. I'm nearly done with my

judging. Just one more impromptu visit to each of the finalists' homes, to see if catching them off guard makes

any difference. Then I'm putting this sorry affair to bed,

once and for all."

"Good," I said. "I'm glad for everyone's sake that this is

almost over with, so we can move on."

"Yeah. Not counting Richard," Sullivan growled.

I winced, chagrined at my own insensitivity.

"Oh, now, Erin didn't mean it like that." Walter got to

his feet and struggled back into his coat, shuffling his hat

between his hands. "Anybody can see she doesn't have a

mean bone in her body." He gave me a nod, and said,

"I've got to shove off." He grinned at Sullivan. "It's been

good for me to see for myself that part of Richard lives on

through his students. I'll keep you posted on the contest."

Walter's visit seemed to put Sullivan into a funk.

Maybe he took offense to Walter's taking my side, or

maybe he was still mired in angst over his recent loss, but

once again he seemed to need some space. I wondered,

though, if all this "space" he needed wasn't steadily pushing me right out of his life. I started working on Audrey's

new kitchen, calculating that with all the extra hours