Death by Inferior Design (30 page)

“I’m sure whatever you do will be simply
divine.”
She added, “Myra tells me you and Steve have given her wonderful proposals for upgrading her interiors.”

“Thanks. We’re doing our best. We’ve got my next appointment with Myra tomorrow afternoon, as a matter of fact.”

“That’s wonderful. It’s fascinating to watch how Myra Axelrod is breaking out of her cocoon, now that she’s finally free of that monster.”

That monster. My father.
My grip tightened on the phone. With that one statement, Jill had brought my mood crashing back to the hardwood floor. Carefully I remarked, “Randy seemed a bit abrasive to me . . . though I only spent a brief time in his company.”

“The man should have been in jail. He
would
have been, if I’d had any say in the matter. The number of times he put Myra in the hospital . . . it made you want to kill the bastard. And, it would appear, someone finally did just that.”

Shortly after eight the next morning, Linda Delgardio
returned my call. When I asked if we could “get together and talk off the record” for a few minutes, she warned me that there was no such thing as
off the record
in her line of work. She asked if I still wanted us to get together, which I assured her I did, then suggested that we meet in half an hour at the Major Grind, a coffee shop near the CU campus.

Linda had arrived ahead of me and had managed to claim one of the Major Grind’s small, square tables. She gave me a warm smile and wave, which I returned and went directly to wait in line. She was in full uniform, and her long black hair was pulled back and pinned tightly against her scalp. The body English of the mostly college-aged patrons at surrounding tables indicated that they were leery in her presence; the self-consciousness that I felt around uniformed officers was clearly universal.

I got a cup of the house blend and joined her, exchanging hellos as I slipped into the bentwood chair opposite hers. “Erin,” she exclaimed, her dark eyes sparkling, “my husband loves the crystal you helped me pick out for my in-laws. Thank you.”

She’d bought four gorgeous red-wine glasses: oval-shaped bowls that felt sublime in one’s palm, delicate stems, perfectly balanced.
What did it say about me that
I remembered her purchase better than I did the woman
herself ? And I didn’t even work at that store! “You’re welcome, Linda.”

“Lucky for me that I caught your presentation. His mom’s impossible to shop for, but like you said, ‘Who can resist beautiful stemware’?”

Had I really said that? Yuk!
I forced a smile. “Who, indeed?”
If the answer turned out to be Linda’s mother-in-law, there went my one and only potential friendship
within the Crestview police force.

Stalling while I tried to figure out how to tactfully bring up my concerns about the murder case, I blew on the surface of my steaming beverage and took a tentative sip. This particular blend was too acrid for my tastes, yet I hated the cloying sweetness of sugar in coffee. I should have opted for cocoa.

Linda, meanwhile, was guzzling her coffee. “I’ve been talking to some of my buddies at work. You turned a few heads there, let me tell you.” I widened my eyes in alarm, but she chuckled and said, “In a good way, I mean. That’s the thing about being a cop . . . all my work friends are real macho. You’ve already made something of a name for yourself . . . you’re the only witness who’s ever brought us a container of poison.”

“Is
that
a good thing?”

She merely smiled and gave me hint of a shrug. She leaned back in her seat and regarded me. “So. Some creep fired bullet holes into the side of your van last night. Jeez. Someone’s sure been running you through the ringer lately.”

“No kidding.” I tried to relax a little in my uncomfortable chair and breathed deeply of the delicious coffee aroma that enveloped us. “What makes it all the harder is that Detective O’Reilly seems to think I’m the devil incarnate. He makes me so nervous that I sound guilty even to
me.”

She chuckled again and nodded. “His nickname’s ‘Oh,
really?’ ”
Her voice did an uncannily accurate impression of the detective’s skeptical intonations, and I laughed, too. “He conducts all his interviews that way.”

“He does?” I felt a measure of relief. I took another sip of coffee, hoping to make my next question sound as casual as possible. “So . . . did he tell me the truth? Was Randy Axelrod poisoned by arsenic and not cyanide?”

She furrowed her brow and focused her attention on her beverage.

I went on. “Judging from the articles I’ve read in the Sentinel, Detective O’Reilly’s being cagey to the reporters, too, about whether it was an arsenic or cyanide poisoning.”

Linda still held her tongue. After a long pause, she set down her nearly empty cup and said, “This is what I meant when we spoke on the phone about our chat being on the record. All I can tell you is, you’re right . . . officers
are
allowed to lie to suspects and even to witnesses if that helps us get answers.”

I nodded, thinking:
Aside from the police, only the
killer knows for sure if it was arsenic or cyanide.

Linda continued. “Bottom line, this is O’Reilly’s case. I can’t divulge any facts that could hinder the investigation.”

“Nor would I want you to. I have a pretty strong suspicion that . . .” I hesitated, feeling a little manipulative in trying to establish a sense of camaraderie with a woman I barely knew; my actions smacked of the times when new acquaintances first discovered I was a designer and—suddenly all a-bubble with enthusiasm—would invite me to their homes. “I think Randy Axelrod could have been my biological father. I certainly want whoever killed him put behind bars. Even though from all appearances Randy wasn’t exactly . . .” Again, I hesitated. “Did Randy Axelrod have a criminal record of any kind?”

“Criminal record?”

“Spousal abuse.”

She shook her head. Her expression was grim. “Not that I’m aware of, Erin.”

Although I couldn’t be certain that she was being honest with me, I had the strong feeling that she was. Myra, however, could have suffered her beatings in silence and never reported them. My questions weren’t getting me anywhere. Still, I persisted.

“Linda, would it really mess up O’Reilly’s case if I at least knew my standing?” I took another quick sip; the coffee tasted a little less bitter now.

“Your standing?”

“I just want to know if I’m a chief suspect.”

Gently she said, “I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you, since you’re innocent.”

“It’s easy to say ‘don’t worry . . . you’re innocent,’ ” I snapped, “but when you’re in that awful little room and you’re getting barraged with questions about your role in a murder. . . . Last night, Detective O’Reilly volunteered information about Randy Axelrod’s blood type, to test my reaction. Doesn’t that mean he already
knew
Randy Axelrod was my father? Which also means my birth records are now part of Detective O’Reilly’s file, right?”

She said nothing and her expression didn’t change.

I waved a hand, which may as well have been holding a white flag. “I’m sorry, Linda. I know you can’t answer that. It’s extremely frustrating to have this police officer treat me like dirt and yet know more about my heritage than
I
do. It’s like discovering someone has put a peep-hole in your dressing room wall.”

“Erin.” She leaned closer. “You seem like a really nice person. I wish you’d just happened to call me and none of this had happened to you, and we were able to chat freely, as friends.” She squared her shoulders. “Right now—” She tapped her badge. “There’s nothing I can say to you.”

I nodded, more frustrated now than ever. I was close to tears. When I looked up from my cup, Linda was studying me.

“Erin, is there anything you want to tell
me
? Anything that might help us get the killer?”

I mulled her questions, but I’d told O’Reilly everything I knew. “Not really. Anyone in Randy’s small circle of
friends,
for lack of a better word, could have murdered him.”

She glanced at her watch, then stood up, draining the dregs from her cup. “I’ve got to get back.” She handed me a business card. “I wrote my home address and phone on the back. If Oh,
really?
gets to you and you’ve thought of something helpful, I can be your go-between.”

“Thanks, Linda.”

She returned my smile. “Don’t mention it. I hope that the next time we meet, it’ll be during happier times for you.”

“Me, too. Thanks.”

She winked. “See ya.”

I watched her leave, watched the other patrons sneak looks at her as she passed the plate-glass window to her squad car. Those same curious glances then shifted in my direction. I straightened and started to push back my chair. Only then did I realize what I had in my hands. I had snapped my balsa-wood coffee stirrer into tiny fragments.

chapter 18

Although logic might tell us that a beautiful presentation doesn’t improve the actual flavor of the feast, our tastebuds aren’t governed by logic.

—Audrey Munroe

I was surprised to hear Audrey rattling around in the house. By this time on a Tuesday morning, she was usually at the television station in Denver. I stashed my coat and purse in the closet and headed toward the kitchen to greet her, curious about what kind of domestic project she’d have under way today.

It was immediately obvious why she was home rather than at work. Her nose was red and her eyes puffy. Sans her usual elegant leisure wear, she wore a yellow terry-cloth robe, its pockets brimming with crumpled tissues. She wore no makeup and her usually flawless ash-blond hair had a severe case of bed head.

“Morning, Audrey. Feeling under the weather?”

She sneezed.

“Bless you.”

“Head cold,” she explained unnecessarily, her voice congested and gravelly. “This type of disaster is why we tape in advance.”

She’d taken out every piece of stemware from the cabinets and was lining them up by height along the granite counter of her kitchen isle. At her feet, she had several more boxes of crystal.

“So you’re . . . throwing an enormous cocktail party?”

She shook her head. “Research.” She blew her nose. “We’re discussing glassware tomorrow. I’ll be good as new by then. I’m taking zinc lozenges. They’ll knock this thing out of my system in no time.” She slid a green-cellophane-wrapped lozenge toward me. “You’d better take one of these now, too, to keep from catching my cold.”

“Too bad you got too late a start on the zinc yourself,” I muttered, wondering about its effectiveness. I took a seat on a bar stool and stuck the lozenge in my mouth. An artificial lemon flavor waged a losing battle to cover up the metallic flavor. I said, “Bless you,” to another sneeze, but she waved me off and grumbled, “Save your blessings for sometime when I really need them.”

“I did a presentation on glassware at a store just two weeks ago, Audrey.”

“I know.” (Her words sounded more like “I dough.”)

“That’s where I got the idea. I’m not feeling terribly creative this morning.” She rounded the isle and sank into the bar stool beside me. “In fact, I can’t even figure out where to begin.” She looked at me with sad—and watery—puppy-dog eyes. It wouldn’t be kind of me to ignore her hint that she needed some help.

“Well, whenever I do one of my glassware presentations, I start out by asking the audience to consider how they’d feel about going into a fancy restaurant and ordering a hundred-dollar bottle of French wine, only to have the sommelier serve their wine in a paper cup. And I tell them that the general guideline to identify a glass’s function is that chilled, straight-up beverages are served in glasses designed to be held by the stem, room-temperature beverages use glasses that are held by the bowl, and iced beverages are served in large glasses with wide rims and are held near the top of the glass. As long as people keep in mind that the key is whether you want your palm warming the contents or not, it’s all pretty much common sense.”