Death by Inferior Design (34 page)

Kevin nodded. “Now that the twins are home, they’d probably like to make their rooms off-limits.”

He opened a door to one bedroom and brushed against my breast as he supposedly tripped on the carpet. I hadn’t had anyone else over the age of eighteen pull such a ridiculous grope move on me.

“Whoops. Automatic reaction,” he said with a sly grin. “Lost my balance. Good thing
those
were there.” He wiggled his eyebrows and eyed my breasts.

In no mood to take any guff, I snarled, “You know, I should warn you that
I
have an automatic knee-to-the-groin reaction. I wouldn’t suggest trying that on me a second time.”

Jill entered the room. Those indoor shoes of hers certainly made her light on her feet. By the expression on her face, it was obvious that she’d overheard my threat to Kevin.

“Rachel’s all handled,” she said evenly to her husband. She turned to me, her eyes chilly. “Has Kevin shown you everything you’d like to see, Erin?”

And then some,
I thought. “Yes.”

While escorting me downstairs, she referred to her Palm Pilot and said, “Let’s you and I meet again at ten a.m. on the morning after next, shall we?”

“Let me check my schedule.” I stepped into my shoes, grabbed my own electronic calendar from my purse, and said, “That works. We can kick around some ideas then.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

That makes one of us.
This neighborhood was a nicely decorated hellhole, and my brief encounter with Kevin had been my kick in the rear to get out of here. I needed to get home to my marble fireplace, afghan, and cat. I headed out the door, vowing to decide about Myra and her design job tomorrow.

Myra, however, was pacing alongside my van. She looked at me with hollow eyes and asked, “Did you have a nice talk with Emily Blaire?”

“Yes, thanks,” I murmured.

“Good. That’s good. It’s lucky, because she’s not always all that lucid. She’s on medication, you know. Zoloft or something, I believe Carl told me. She has a tendency to . . . to fabricate when she’s under stress.”

“Huh. That’s too bad.”
Please, God, let me just get
home.

I tried to unlock the door to my van. Myra grabbed my hand and pressed it between her palms. Her own hands felt clammy despite the chill in the air. Her pleading gaze made it apparent how desperate she was to connect with me. “Erin. Jeannie did the only thing she could to keep him away from you—moving clear across the country with you. Randy had found you again. I couldn’t let him hurt you again. He nearly drowned you as a baby. If I hadn’t come into the bathroom right when I did and pulled you out of the tub . . . I did it for you.” She squeezed my hand painfully. “I know it doesn’t look like it to see how he lived, but Randy had amassed a small fortune from selling his business.”

“The fitness studios he used to own?”

“Yes. So you mustn’t worry about your inheritance. I’m contacting my lawyer and getting Randy’s and my will changed to leave everything to you.”

“My
inheritance
? Why would I . . .” I paused when I saw the tears in her eyes.
“Please
don’t contact your lawyer about the will, Myra. That’s just not something we should be worrying about. I don’t want any money that I haven’t earned.”

“Oh, but you
did
earn every dime, Erin. You wouldn’t even be alive today if . . .” Her taut features crumbled, and she burst into sobs. “He didn’t mean to try to drown you, Erin. He was
drinking.
Sometimes he had problems with the alcohol. To tell you the truth, I did, too. Sometimes the booze was all that seemed to help me get through the day, living with one man, loving another man I knew I could never have. I had
you
to take care of, and that meant things were never going to change. He never meant to actually hurt you, Erin. And he never would have if it weren’t for the problem he sometimes had with drinking. It was just an accident. Believe me, Erin. It was an accident.”

I knew she was reversing
her
role for Randy’s—who was no longer here to defend himself—but I couldn’t help but feel horribly sorry for her. With all the sincerity I could muster, I said, “I’m sure it
was
just an accident. If he were here today, I would forgive him to his face, Myra. I swear to you, I would forgive him.” Her eyes were searching mine with such desperation that I continued. “At times, we all fall way short of who we want to be. Every one of us does. So you’ve got to find a way to forgive as well.”

She gathered herself, pursed her lips, and nodded, but then backed away, pivoted, and walked straight into her house without a backward glance. Dear God, what an odd woman! Had my words gotten through to her at all?

I drove toward Audrey’s house, willing myself to keep going and act as though my heart hadn’t just been ripped out. My brain was filled with images of newscasts with distraught family members telling the TV journalists, “I just need to know what happened.” Suddenly, knowing the truth seemed vastly overrated. I wish with all my heart that I’d never taken Carl’s assignment in the first place.

O’Reilly’s disdainful words and attitude while discussing my job came back to me. Was I kidding myself by thinking my line of work was anything more than trivial indulgences? What possible good could ever come from making someone’s wrecked household slightly prettier? In Myra’s case, wasn’t I just slapping a bright yellow coat of paint onto cracked walls and a crumbling foundation?

I parked in front of Audrey’s house and stopped to really look at its stately exterior. For once, I desperately needed Audrey to be home. Sure, she hadn’t shown much interest in my life, but
I
was the one who’d been stingy with personal information. Didn’t I need to at least give her a shot at listening to my woes before I wrote her off as self-absorbed? Clutching my briefcase and its precarious contents, I trotted up the slate walkway and unlocked the door. The house felt uninhabited, but I called out, “Audrey?” just in case.

No answer. My heart sank.

I grabbed a Ziploc bag from the kitchen and slipped the letters and necklace inside the bag. I went upstairs to my room, opened the closet, and looked at the box of my mother’s things. Putting Emily’s letters and cameo in it didn’t feel right to me, but I needed to put the bag and contents out of sight. I dropped them into the pocket of a jacket that I never wore and shut the closet door.

Hildi, who was obviously punishing me for my negligence of late, waltzed into the room and gave me a low meow that meant:
Oh.
You
still live here, do you?

My cat’s demeanor changed when I slumped down onto the floor, too drained to bother making my way to the chair or my bed. Though her pace didn’t alter, she switched her direction and, instead of passing by me, she nuzzled against my arm. As I stroked her sleek black fur, she climbed into my lap, and I could no longer hold the tears inside.

Hildi, who’d never seen me like this because I’m not a big crier, looked at my face as if surprised, then pressed against my chest in her own version of a hug. Returning the hug, I murmured into her soft fur, now wet with my tears, “I
do
forgive Myra.”

Later, I paced the living room and called Steve
Sullivan to warn him that things were indeed getting too hot for me to handle, as he had predicted. He asked what I meant, and I told him about my conversations with Emily and Myra, and the all-too-obvious conclusion that it was
Randy
who’d realized he needed to protect me from
Myra,
and that this had led to my adoption all those years ago.

“The thing is,” I told him in a calm voice, though I kept needing to clear my throat, “now that some of Myra’s defense mechanisms have broken down enough for her to tell me about
Randy’s
nearly drowning me as a child, I’m worried about
her
being alone tonight.”

“She’s not alone,” Steve replied. “I just called over there to ask about whether or not she wanted to keep that wing chair of hers in the family room, and Debbie answered. Myra sounded just fine when she got on the phone. She told me that she and Debbie had rented some chick flick and were just about to watch it together. You don’t need to worry about her, Erin.”

Don’t worry.
There was that phrase again. It always caused my internal worry barometer to rise. “As long as she’s got a friend there, she’ll probably be fine,” I reassured myself.

“How about you?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Is Audrey Munroe home?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you okay alone?”

“Sure. I’ve got Hildi.”

“Hildi?”

“My cat.”

“You have a
cat
?” He spoke the last word as if my favorite animal was a four-letter word. “Doesn’t it scratch up all your furniture?”

I rolled my eyes but replied, “See you tomorrow morning at Myra’s. We’ll play it by ear, okay? If I do decide I need to bow out, I’ll do so as gracefully as possible.”

“I hope you don’t. Because if you go, I go.”

“Why? We’re not really partners.”

“Maybe we should think about changing that.”

“Are you serious?”

There was a pause. “Well . . . you’re better with accessorizing than I am. I’ve got a broader scope of creative vision than you do.”

I lowered the receiver momentarily to look at it in dismay and annoyance. Was his assessment of our respective abilities accurate? Maybe, but I felt infinitely better when saying it to myself rather than hearing it from Sullivan. “I
am
better at accessories. I’ll grant you that much.”

Another pause. “Let’s just drop the whole thing for now . . . maybe think about it this summer, though. If my business is still afloat by then.”

“You’re in such a tight squeeze that it might
not
be?”

“Think I’d be talking about us teaming up otherwise?”

“Yes!” I snapped, stung and all too willing to lash out. “And you’d know that if you were smarter! I’m great to work with. My clients
love
me. So do cats. And they’re a lot better judge of people than most humans are, by the way.”

“Woof, woof.”

I hung up on him, not really sure what he meant by barking at me, but quite certain he’d intended it as an insult. As Hildi rubbed against my legs, I assured her, “Ha! That cat-hater is never going to work with
me,
sweetiekins. Don’t worry.”

The last two words reverberated, making me wince.

I slammed the phone into its stand on the mahogany console so hard that I could still feel the reverberations in my hand. And yet my brain insisted on rehashing the conversation from Sullivan’s viewpoint. I was always yelling at him. I was terrible to all the men in my life, no matter how hard I tried to be otherwise. Not that I
knew
many men. My main clients were usually women, their husbands taking a backseat. My father had deserted me. My biological father had been murdered. Kevin McBride was a lecher. Carl Henderson considered me his personal curse. Maybe I was
everyone’s
curse.

A kitchen cabinet hinge creaked. Glass clinked against glass. My feet were still glued to the antique pine floorboards when Audrey entered the living room, saying, “There you are, dear. I’ve had the most exasperating day, from the . . .”

Her voice, still a bit husky from her head cold, trailed off as our eyes met.

She blinked twice, then said, “Here,” and held out the glass of red wine. “You obviously need this more than I do.”

I hesitated, then accepted the glass. Although the liquid went down easily enough, it seemed like a pity that she was wasting perfectly good wine on me in my current state. She was waiting for me to say something, though, so I forced a breezy tone and said, “Nice. Is this a Beaujolais?”

She continued to study me skeptically. Quietly, she asked, “Did you get some terrible news over the phone just now? Did someone close to you die?”

I managed a feeble scoff. “My biological father. Last week. Randy Axelrod was . . .” I stopped, unable to continue, unable to move my feet.

After a lengthy and painful pause, Audrey asked, “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

I shook my head.

“Here’s what you’ll do.” She put her hand on the small of my back and nudged me gently toward the kitchen. “While I’m concocting some fabulous repast for us, you’ll help me polish off that marvelous bottle of Bordeaux, and you’ll talk to me.”

“I’m fine, Audrey. I’m just a little—”

“You’ll start at the beginning and tell me how you came to be reacquainted with Mr. Axelrod.”

“It’s a long story,” I protested.

“And I’ve got lots of time. Plus a wonderfully stocked wine cellar.”

Steve was waiting for me on Myra’s porch the next
morning, with a big smile on his face, a portfolio that no doubt contained the preliminary presentation boards under one arm. Did the man
have
to have such a freaking gorgeous smile? Not to mention the bedroom eyes and Adonis body. “Morning,” he said as I made my way up the steps. “I got you a little I’m-sorry present.” He held out a steaming to-go cup from Starbucks. “I didn’t know if you drink coffee or tea, so I got hot chocolate.”

“Thank you. That’s my favorite.”

“I knew it. Sweets for the sweet.”

I grimaced a little, and he said, “Too much?”

“A little bit. Yeah.” I took a cautious sip of the steamy beverage, which tasted downright sinful.

He gestured at the door. “You ready?”

“Absolutely.”

He rang the doorbell. There was no answer. We waited, then he pushed the button a second time. “Odd,” he murmured.

Terrible suspicions engulfed me. Myra could indeed have killed Randy and now, overcome with guilt, she’d taken her own life. If so—if she was dead—it would be my fault for not contacting the police the moment I suspected she was suicidal. I set the cup down on the stoop. “Steve, I’ve got a bad feeling. See if it’s locked.”

He turned the knob; the door swung open. “Myra?” he called.

“Christ,” I muttered, rushing past him into the house. “Myra? Are you here? Myra!”