Decorated to Death

FAUX FINISHED

DECORATED TO DEATH

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

DECORATED TO DEATH

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2008 by Peg Marberg.

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 1-4295-9484-5

BERKLEY
^®
PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

To my family and in particular to
Rich, Matt, Amanda, Steve, and Kevin.
Bright young adults with bright futures.

I wish to thank my husband, Ed,
whose patience and understanding helped me
throughout the writing of this book.
I also wish to thank Sandra Harding, my editor,
who also helped guide me through the process.
I couldn’t have done it without them.

It was a perfect midsummer day in America’s heartland. For a change, the local weather forecast included neither the threat of an afternoon shower nor the prospect of an extended heat wave. In the backyard of my Seville, Indiana, home (located in the central part of the Hoosier state), I was enjoying a second cup of morning coffee. The house, an English-style cottage, was built in the late 1940s by Archibald Kettle, a dedicated Anglophile, who dubbed his creation Kettle Cottage, a name that stuck. Some thirty-plus years ago, my husband, Charles William Hastings, presented me with the keys to the place. I, in turn, presented Charlie with Jean Junior (aka JR), our first and only child.

From the flagstone patio, ensconced in a green-cushioned white wicker chair, I watched as a charm of finches, an immature cardinal, and a pair of white-breasted nuthatches hopped about in the leafy branches of the redbud tree. The yard had never looked better, thanks to the efforts of my husband, a retired investment counselor. And thanks to his devotion to the game of golf, Charlie wasn’t there to share the morning, or the moment, with me. Instead, the role of companion fell to Pesty, a pampered six-year-old Keeshond.

With eyes as black as her nose, the pudgy pooch stared wistfully at the cottage’s back door. The warm, humid air had turned the little Kees’s black and silvery coat into an unruly mound of fuzzy fur. She literally looked like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. But, her “been there, done that” attitude indicated that Pesty was ready to trade the great outdoors for the great indoors. The opportunity to do so came when the shrill ring of the kitchen phone brought us both to our feet and into the house.

“Designer Jeans. Jean Hastings speaking. How may I help you?” I said, catching my breath. Somehow I had managed (sans reading glasses), to push the correct button on Charlie’s latest Internet purchase—a skinny, Day-Glo pink, high-impact-plastic, wireless telephone. The monstrosity had more options than a Chinese dinner menu.

“And this is England’s Fine Furniture calling. Mary England speaking,” Charlie’s twin replied. Her voice overflowed with a natural exuberance. “How about having lunch at the club today?” she said, referring to the Sleepy Hollow Country Club. “Just you and me, Gin. No husbands, no kids, no grandkids, and no hassles. Or are you too busy?”

“I wish. Unfortunately, my work schedule is about as empty as Pesty’s food dish. I think I’m paying the price for operating an interior design business in a town with a population of fewer than thirty thousand.”

Designer Jeans came into being some twelve-plus years ago as a cure for my midlife crisis, which was initiated by an empty nest and exacerbated by Charlie’s early retirement. According to JR, my junior partner, Designer Jeans is a viable business thanks to my brain and her brawn.

“I didn’t go back to school, pass the National Council for Interior Design Qualification exam, and join the United Federation of Interior Designers just to end up competing with Abner Wilson and his grandnephew for jobs,” I grumbled. “While I don’t mind washing walls or even painting a few fences, I’m not all that keen on trash removal. Although, if you believe the latest gossip making its way around town, that end of the business has become a real moneymaker for the old grouch.”

“Well,” said the perpetually cheerful Mary, “if things are as bad as you say for Designer Jeans, then I think you’ll be especially interested in what I’ve got to tell you. You know, Gin, I believe this is your lucky day.”

My friendship with Mary (an attractive, albeit overweight, blithe spirit) began when we were mere toddlers and has continued to this day. She is both my best friend and sister-in-law. Still, I was about to chide her for her continuous use of my childhood nickname when she nearly rendered me deaf with an ear-piercing scream.

“Oh my stars! Gin, I’ve got to go. Herbie’s demonstrating a king-size sofa bed for a customer. The last time he did that, it took more than three hours to get him free. Even the firemen couldn’t figure out how he got himself stuck in it. Noon at the club. Bye-bye.”

The call ended, leaving me with some unanswered questions, none of which pertained to the furniture store’s salesman, the ambiguous Herbie Waddlemeyer. What did Mary have to tell me? And why did she believe that it was my lucky day? Friday the thirteenth isn’t exactly a stellar date on anybody’s calendar, and certainly not on mine. My inherited Irish intuition kicked in, leaving me with an uneasy feeling.

The feeling increased as a murder of crows came into view. Breaking formation as they flew over the yard, the ominous black birds staged a noisy reunion in the nearby woods. Listening to the ruckus, I felt about as lucky as an overfed canary trapped in a room full of underfed felines.

“Hey, snap out of it,” I said in a voice loud enough to wake the dead and the napping Pesty, “this is Indiana. Crows are like basketball hoops—they’re everywhere. Leave the pondering and foreboding to Poe. You’re an interior designer, not a master of mystery. Now, go get ready for lunch.”

Maybe the dog didn’t appreciate my little lecture, but it did me a lot of good. Mentally, I’d crossed over to the sunny side of the street, and I was determined to stay there, even if it killed me.

A huffing Pesty followed me up the oak staircase and into the master bedroom. Making herself comfortable in the middle of the crazy-quilt-covered four-poster bed, the sleepy Kees watched with drooping eyelids as I began searching the bedroom closet for a change of clothes. I’d decided to ditch the outfit that I had on (a coffee-stained, olive-drab camp shirt and shorts) for something more in keeping with my budding, cheerful disposition.

After considering everything from the ridiculous (a green chenille jumpsuit) to the sublime (ivory satin lounging pajamas), I chose my old, white linen pantsuit with its fickle zipper and my new teal camisole. The suit made the best of my less-than-perfect figure, and the camisole complemented the suit.

A quick shower and shampoo followed by a few passes with the hair dryer took care of my chin-length, gray-streaked auburn tresses. A fast application of peach blusher with matching lip gloss, a smidgen of shadow to bring out the blue in my gray eyes, and I was ready to wiggle into my clothes.

Checking my reflection in the hall mirror before leaving the house, I was pleased. For a tall, bony, senior citizen (a label today’s society bestows on anyone ordering dinner from the special early-bird menu at a chain restaurant), I looked pretty spiffy, thanks to good health, genes, and my choice of outfits.

In retrospect, I was as wrong about the suit (the zipper on the pants split when I arrived at the club) as Mary was about it being my lucky day. Had I followed my Irish intuition, skipped lunch, and spent the remainder of the day in the bathtub with a stack of home decor magazines, there’s no telling how differently things might have turned out.