Death by Inferior Design (24 page)

“But
you
were the one who was breaking the law, Taylor, not Randy,” Sullivan interjected.

“Maybe so, but, like, he was the one who did all that breaking and entering.” He paused. “Okay . . . so maybe he didn’t
break
anything, but he sure as hell
entered.”

I remained perplexed as to why Taylor would march into my office asking for work, only to volunteer all this adverse information about himself. But I was also dying to hear anything he was willing to reveal about Randy Axelrod. “Didn’t Randy have a key to the Hendersons’ house?” I asked him.

“Sure, but nobody
gave
it to him. Randy just kept hold of it without telling Carl he still had it from when the place was his.”

“Taylor, I—”

He cut Sullivan off and snarled, “That son of a bitch turned me in for no reason! Kept bargin’ into the house, checking out what I was doing whenever I wasn’t there.”

He stood up, his eyes widening. “Hey, don’t, like, get me wrong. I didn’t kill him. But no way are the police ever going to believe that. Not after all the bad blood between me ’n’ Axelrod.”

Sullivan said, “I didn’t even realize you two had any problems. I mean, you decided to set up shop in the man’s backyard.”

“No shit! Randy practically begged me to set everything up in his backyard, to forget about our ‘past differences.’ Easy for him to say.
He
wasn’t the one who spent three months in jail,” Taylor scoffed. “He said it wasn’t personal, that he was just trying to keep the neighborhood free from
potheads
like me. It was just the one time. I got a little high and forgot to replace the board that covered the opening in the wall. Next thing I know, I’m selling a couple of grams to a narc, and they arrest me.”

Sullivan leaned back in his seat and laced his fingers behind his neck. “If you’re considering this a job interview, Taylor, I’ve got to tell you that you might want to reconsider your presentation skills.”

I fought back a smile. “If I have a need for your services, I’ll get your number from Carl,” I told him.

Taylor said, “Yeah, yeah. I won’t hold my breath. But . . . can I tell my parole officer and social worker that you both gave me job interviews?”

That explained his bizarre behavior: he needed to prove he was looking for work, but he’d sabotaged his “interview” to prevent his having to start work.

“Sure,” we answered simultaneously.

He nodded his thanks and thumped down the stairs. After a moment, I said to Sullivan, “Well. He was just so charming and personable that it
killed
me to have to break his heart and give him the brush-off like that.”

“I know,” he replied with a dramatic sigh. “A designer’s lot is not a happy one.”

I grinned at him. “A modified lyric from Gilbert and Sullivan.”

He shrugged. “I was the set designer for
“Pirates of
Penzance”
back in high school.” He pulled out a notebook from his jacket pocket. “So, Gilbert. Let’s try to let bygones be bygones and bounce around some ideas for Myra Axelrod’s house.”

Later that day, I arrived at the Hendersons’ home, hav
ing changed into jeans and armed myself with a steamer and scraper, along with the necessary Sheetrock-repair accoutrements. Despite Debbie’s admonishes last night not to bother, I couldn’t knowingly leave a design of mine in that state of disrepair. After a long wait for the doorbell to be answered, Carl pulled the door open by twelve inches or so and stuck out his head.

In an attempt to ignore his odd behavior, I gave him my nicest smile. “Good evening, Carl.”

Although we’d made this appointment by phone just an hour ago, he stared at me with blank eyes and made no move to let me inside. He was panting a little, and his forehead sported beads of perspiration.

“I’m here to patch the holes in the drywall,” I reminded him.

He reseated his wire-frame glasses on his nose. “Right. You called about that.”

Worry niggled at me. “And you said that this would be a good time, but if—”

“Right. Right. Come on in.” He stepped back, and I caught sight of his right arm for the first time: it was in a cast from his fingertips to his elbow.

“Oh, dear. What happened?”

He said nothing and trudged up the stairs. I followed, noting the half-tucked-in, half-out state of his dress shirt and that he was in his stocking feet; we stepped around both of his black wing tips en route. My nervousness grew, and I sighed with relief when I entered the bedroom and saw that his bed was neatly made and empty; I’d started to suspect that I had interrupted a rendezvous with his ex-wife, Emily.

“Here it is,” Carl mumbled. He flicked on the light, and I gaped at the condition of the accent wall. Instead of two holes, there were now four—the two I’d seen, plus a large fist-high hole in the wall and a second smaller one. “The cops, uh, put in a couple more holes after you left.”

“Huh,” I muttered noncommittally. Carl himself had said that the hammer only went clear through the wall twice. Besides, this time the impact had obviously come from the front and not the back of the wall.

He watched as I filled my steamer and plugged it in. “Truth is, Erin, I kind of lost my composure and put my fist through the wall. Well, technically, I only went clear through the wall once. The
second
time I hit the stud.”

“That’s how you broke your hand?”

“ ’Fraid so.”

“I can fix it. The wall, that is, not the hand. No problem.”

His expression swiftly changed to one of unmasked fury. “Well, it sure as hell was a problem for
me
!”

Shocked, I took a step back. “Pardon?”

“You’re a terrible designer! You destroyed my life!”

If nothing else, your accusations are something of a non
sequitur.
I said gently, “I’m sorry you’ve run into some bad times. It really wasn’t my bedroom design that was at fault, though.”

“Oh, no? I’ve got no wife and a broken hand. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t come onto the scene and torn down the wood paneling!”

Okay. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for me to be stripping the man’s wallpaper. Afraid to turn my back on him even for an instant, I yanked on the cord to unplug my steamer, hoping it would make a good defensive weapon if Carl was to try to grab me. He was so enraged I really did fear he would attack me. “For what it’s worth, I dearly wish I’d left the paneling in place. This hasn’t been a vacation for me, either.”

“You don’t seem to have lost
your
spouse or broken
your
hand. And you made money on the deal.
I
had to pay big bucks for the privilege of getting my life trashed!”

“I’m sorry about the way things turned out for you, Mr. Henderson.”

“Are you? Is that supposed to make me feel better? My wife’s called a lawyer, and they want
me
to move out so
she
can have the house. Want to guess why?” He took a step toward me.

I shrank back, bracing myself a little to clock him with the wallpaper steamer when he took a swing at me. Quietly, I guessed, “She likes the new bedroom?”

“Bingo!” He snorted. “You got it right on the first try. She
likes
the new bedroom. Which you designed. So I’m supposed to move out of my own home. My wife has an affair with my neighbor
again,
and I am supposed to give her
our
house because she loves the damn bedroom you made for her. Where’s the justice in that?”

Again?
Debbie been extremely convincing when she’d claimed to me that the letters weren’t hers. Carl might have been allowing his ragged emotions to make his decisions for him. “It’s a difficult situation, all right,” I agreed tersely.

“You know what? She wants the bedroom, let’s let her have it.” As I watched in horror, he smashed his elbow into the wall. Another hole appeared in the beautiful wallpaper I’d chosen with such care.

“Carl, this isn’t going to—”

Carl growled, “By the time I’m through with it, she’ll—” He kicked the wall with his stocking foot and yowled, “Ow! Oh, crap! I hit the damned stud again!” Then he crumpled onto the floor, holding his injured foot aloft.

Not knowing what to do, I watched him writhe in agony for a moment, then asked, “Do you need a ride to the hospital?”

“No! Not from you! You’re my bad-luck charm. I’d have to sit in the death seat, and you’d probably
crash
the car!” He grimaced with pain.

I started making my way to the door. “Carl, this is obviously not a good time for me to be trying to repair the wall. Let’s just go with the flow for a little while here and see where we wind up. Okay?”

He was yipping and rocking himself as I hurried down the stairs and out the door.

Early the next morning, I was climbing Myra’s porch
steps for our rescheduled appointment just as Sullivan drove up. I waited for him, noting that he was looking especially handsome in his perfectly fitted black suit jacket over a gray mock turtleneck and black slacks. I, too, was dressed to the nines in a cream-colored Armani skirt suit. Being well-dressed was such a solid job requirement that I felt our high-end wardrobe should be tax-deductible. Decorating clients are buying an upgrade in their home’s appearance and deserve the whole package—a designer who knows and cares enough about appearances to dress the part.

“Ready, Gilbert?” he said without greeting me.

“Sure, Sullivan.”

His hand smacked into mine as we simultaneously reached for the doorbell. He gave me a lopsided grin. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“No. By all means, you take the honor.”

He hesitated, but pushed the button. Some partnership. We couldn’t even agree on who would ring a doorbell.

Myra was bubbling with enthusiasm as she let us inside. Sullivan and I managed to settle into her living room without stepping on each other’s toes, and the three of us began our discussions. We weren’t—unfortunately—redesigning the kitchen or bathrooms, and we all agreed that Myra’s walnut-colored rosewood dining room set was lovely, so aside from the living room, we needed only to discuss her requirements and vision for the family room, the office, and the two upstairs bedrooms. Steve and I immediately agreed that we’d like to remove the existing wall between the living and dining rooms and replace it with a half wall.

Myra rose and walked over to that wall. “I guess that makes sense. We can put a shelf on the half wall.”

“That would look great,” I said. “It will open the area up, but the half wall will still give the rooms definition.”

Steve tapped on the wall, judging where the studs were located. “We’ll need to put a support post here . . . right where the wall ends. We’ll have to contract that work out,” he told Myra. “We shouldn’t have any problem finding someone to do this after the holidays.”

“That reminds me. The floor is making an unusual squeak right here,” Myra said. She stood in the center of the room and shifted her weight from foot to foot, which did cause an unduly loud squeak as the plywood subflooring creaked beneath her. “Do you hear that? It doesn’t sound like a piece of loose plywood to me, somehow.”

“It doesn’t to me, either,” I agreed. “Steve, I’m going to head downstairs and check the structure. There should be a beam going across the ceiling in the basement right about where you’re standing. We need to make sure the support beam is in good shape before we start any major renovations.”

Myra escorted me to the basement door. I asked, “It’s unfinished, isn’t it? Your basement?”

“Yes.”

She flipped on the light, and I went down into the musty-smelling basement. Myra came down partway with me but waited on the stairs.

“Can you tell where I’m standing?” Sullivan called down to me.

“Yes.”

“The noise in the floorboards does sound a bit odd,” he said in a half shout. “It’s probably my imagination, but there seems to be too much give.”

There was a loud cracking sound just over my head, as though he were turning the floor above into a trampoline.

“Erin, don’t you think—” Myra started to say.

I couldn’t hear her above the noise. Just as I stepped toward her, the massive support beam almost directly above my head gave way.

chapter 15

I dived onto the concrete floor. The impact jarred through my body as my jaw smacked shut and pain seared through my rib cage and abdomen. The wind was knocked out of me, and I struggled against intense pain to catch my breath.

I managed to prop myself up on my elbows and look back. Miraculously, nothing heavy had fallen on top of me, just splinters and rubble. I’d been very lucky, and I stared at the devastation around me in disbelief.

The entire support beam that ran straight across the ceiling had collapsed.

Myra was screaming. She’d turned away, but remained on the basement stairs, her arms covering her face.

“I’m okay,” I called, as much to reassure myself as Myra.

As I stumbled to my feet, Steve raced down the steps past Myra. “Erin! Are you all right?” he asked as he rushed to me. His face was white.

It hurt to talk, but I answered, “Fine. Just bruised.” My cream-colored Armani was now dirt-colored. My panty-hose were a complete casualty. Coughing, I tried to wave away the considerable cloud of dust that the falling beam had kicked up.

“Erin! Thank God you’re all right!” Myra cried. “For a moment there, I was so afraid you’d been killed.”

I examined the fallen support beam. The wood was a perfect, sawed-off rectangle; the timber was an engineered, glue-laminated piece. Only the top inch of the end was jagged where the beam’s weight combined with the pressure of traffic above forced it to give way. Steve’s stomping on it from above had apparently done the trick.

“The beam’s been cut,” Steve said as Myra cautiously made her way over to us.

I ran my hand along the slight arc-shaped marks left by the circular saw. “And there’s some flaking here along the bottom edge. Someone sawed through the beam on both ends and then caulked it so no one would notice. The house was booby-trapped.”