Fatal Feng Shui (26 page)

about the author

L
ESLIE
C
AINE
was once taken hostage at gunpoint and finds that writing about crimes is infinitely more enjoyable than taking part in them. Leslie is a certified interior decorator and lives in Colorado with her husband, two teenage children, and a cocker spaniel. She is at work on her next Domestic Bliss mystery,
Poisoned by Gilt
.

If you enjoyed Leslie Caine’s FATAL FENG SHUI, you won’t want to miss any of the wonderful mysteries in the Domestic Bliss series.

Look for them at your favorite bookseller.

And read on for an exciting early look at the next Domestic Bliss mystery,

POISONED

BY

GILT

a domestic

bliss mystery

by

Leslie Caine

Coming July 2008

POISONED BY GILT

ON SALE JULY 2008

chapter 1

Steve Sullivan’s handsome face grew pale as he listened intently on the phone in our posh office. I had no clue who was calling, and Steve seemed to be deliberately avoiding my gaze. As the seconds dragged by, my imagination ran wild. Was the landlord of this building suddenly giving Sullivan and Gilbert Designs the boot? Had a loved one died? Was the IRS going to audit us?

In any case, this phone call was atrocious timing. I’d been just about to tell him something excruciatingly difficult for me to say. Now, based on his reaction to the one-sided conversation, I was bracing myself for bad news.

He raked his hand through his light brown hair—yet another bad sign—and finally said, “Sure, Richard. We’ll be here, in our office, for at least the next half an hour. See you then.” He hung up and promptly rose from his red-leather office chair. His brow was furrowed, and his jaw was clenched tight. He strode to the palladium window.

“Was that Richard Thayers, calling about the contest?”

“Yeah. Bad news.”

“But…I thought his appointment as contest judge wasn’t even official until today. Did he
already
decide that Burke’s house didn’t win?”

“It’s worse than that.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “Richard is withdrawing as judge for ‘personal reasons.’ He’s also citing our client for possible rule violations. They’re going to have to launch a full investigation. Might even turn the whole thing over to the police.”

“What? That’s ridiculous! You and I have been to Burke’s house fifty times since we first got the rulebook from Earth Love! We went over everything with him with a fine-toothed comb. His house sailed through all the judging for the previous rounds. How could he
possibly
have cheated?”

Sullivan remained silent and turned his back to me. I couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking, which was unusual. In the past two years, we’d gone from bitter rivals to business partners. Along the way, we’d endured more than our fair share of trauma, which has a way of revealing a person’s true nature very quickly. Fortunately, the first six months in the life of our new business had been relatively smooth—not silk, maybe, but top-grade linen. Our personal relationship, on the other hand, was, as always, about as smooth as jagged glass. We were constantly plagued by bad timing and bad luck. Steve’s last two phone conversations with his “mentor,” Richard Thayers, were the perfect example. I’d yet to as much as meet this man whom Sullivan greatly admired. But last night, Richard had called Sullivan’s cell phone and interrupted my hopes for the perfect ending to what, up until then, had finally,
finally
been Steve Sullivan’s and my perfect date. Then, Richard’s call moments ago had occurred just as I’d worked up the courage to suggest to Sullivan that, tonight, we should pick up where we’d left off the night before.

Sullivan continued to stare out the window as though fixated with the view of the Rockies. I decided to scrap my memorized-but-heartfelt speech. Time for Plan B, which was to turn brazen hussy—but a cute brazen hussy, maybe?—and simply blurt out: So, Sullivan. My bed or yours tonight?

“So, Sullivan. Are we being investigated too or something?” (Somewhere a chicken was squawking, just for me.)

“Sure hope not,” he mumbled in the window’s direction.

I struggled in vain to put together the meager shreds of clues that Sullivan had given me to this point. This contest for energy-efficient homes meant much more to Sullivan than it did to me. He was behaving as though this award would be his crowning professional achievement, whereas
I
felt that the contest’s lucrative cash prize went to the homeowner, not the interior designer, for good reason. However, the finalist judge, Richard Thayers, had been Steve Sullivan’s favorite professor at the Art Institute of Colorado, which he’d attended a dozen years ago. Sullivan had even gone so far as to claim: “Thayers taught me everything I know,” and he was at once ecstatic and anxious at the thought of Thayers perhaps choosing
our
design from the three finalists for “Best Green Home in Crestview, Colorado.”

Still trying to extract some answers, I asked, “By ‘personal reasons’ to step down as judge, does Richard mean the fact that he’s your mentor? Didn’t he tell you earlier that the contest sponsors were fine with that?”

“Look, Gilbert.” He turned and glowered at me. “You’ll have to grill
him
, all right? I already told you what little I know.”

My heart sank. Wasn’t it only last night that his dreamy, hazel eyes were staring into mine with loving tenderness? He needed to be reminded to keep things in perspective, not to allow a skirmish at work to turn us into adversaries. But all I said was: “You’re obviously only giving me
part
of Richard’s message, though. What exactly did he say?”

“I wasn’t
recording
him, Gilbert.”

“That’s a pity, Sullivan,” I snapped. “Because if you
had
been using a tape recorder, it would be great of you to hit the rewind button—clear back to our date last night, when you were calling me ‘Erin’ as if you liked me.”

“You’re the one who made the rule that we were to stick with ‘Gilbert’ and ‘Sullivan’ when we’re at work!”

“I’m objecting to your tone of voice! Call me…Princess Dagweeb, for all I care! Last night, when you took my hand and you asked if I minded if we skipped dessert, I thought…” Damn! My throat was getting tight with emotion. No way was I going to start crying.

“That
is
what I meant,” he said gently. He crossed the room, but stopped short of rounding my desk. “And, believe me, I was sure it was going to be a two-second phone conversation when Richard interrupted us last night, or I’d have let it keep ringing. But he was acting weird. He greeted me with: ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me Burke Stratton was your damned client?’ Like I’d stabbed him in the back or something.”

That caught my attention. “Why would he have a problem with Burke?”

“That’s just it.” He spread his arms and grumbled, “I still don’t know. Richard wouldn’t tell me. Just claims the guy wrecked his life…says if I’m smart, I’ll stay way the hell away from Burke, before he finds a way to wipe out Sullivan and Gilbert Designs.”

I nodded, beginning to understand. The thought of having his life ruined by a business arrangement would have been a painful déjà vu for Sullivan; years ago he’d been conned by a corrupt business partner and had nearly lost everything he owned.

“Having Thayers freak out at me was the very last thing I wanted to happen last night,” he continued. “By the time he calmed down and I got off the phone, it was too late for me to call Burke and get the story from him.” He scowled at me. “And
you
were acting so crushed that I didn’t know—”

“You left the table, Sullivan! One second you’re holding my hand, smiling at me, happy because it was your long-lost friend, Richard Thayers, on the phone, the next you’re striding out the door!”

“One of the two men I most admire was yelling in my ear, accusing me of betraying him!”

“I didn’t know that! All you had to do was whisper to me, ‘Something’s wrong,’ or ‘He’s upset.’ Or you could have explained things a little when you returned to the table. Instead, you were distracted and abrupt, and you gave me the brush off when I asked what Richard had said to spoil your mood.”

“Yeah.” Sullivan sighed and ran his fingers through his hair a second time. “Guess that wasn’t one of my better moments.” He added with a charming smile, “Although, again,
you
made the rule about not talking business after hours.”

“
Again
, I couldn’t read your mind,” I explained gently. “All I knew was, you chose to take your phone call over continuing our date, and then you were in a funk. Put yourself in my shoes.”

He gave me an exaggerated wince. “I would, but high heels make my calves look too big.”

“Don’t try to joke your way out of this,” I said, though I was already having a hard time keeping a straight face.

“Erin.” The man had a gift for saying my name in a way that could instantly make me melt. He rounded my desk and leaned toward me, filling me with relief at the thought that,
for once
, we were going to avert a potentially disastrous argument. “I promise you that—”

The door burst open. In walked a man in smudgy gray pants and a ratty-looking forest green sweater that I’m pretty sure was on backwards. He had a sizable bald spot amidst his wild, unkempt hair, and a large red nose that perhaps signified a drinking problem. But, at that moment, he could have been Santa Claus himself, and I still would have hated him, as well as his each and every reindeer. To make matters much worse, Steve’s eyes had lit up as though the man
were
Santa.

“Richard!” Sullivan said, beaming, and striding toward him.

“S.S.!” he returned, giving him a bear hug. “Ridiculous that we live in the same town now,” he said in a raspy voice, “yet we hardly ever see each other.”

What happened to Sullivan’s face-paling angst?
I wondered.
To Richard Thayers’s your-client-is-going-to-destroy-you doomsaying?

“No kidding. We should go have a beer once a week or so. Maybe I’ll finally manage to teach you how to shoot pool like you mean it.”

Oh, goodie. Weekly beer swillings and pool shootings.
That
will make the world a much better place.

“You got here pretty quick.” Sullivan wore a boyish grin on his face and rocked on his heels as though half ready to leap with joy.

“I was just around the corner when we hung up, and I found a space right away. Did you get my email about my night-ed class?”

“Tonight at CU, right? Mind if I drop in?”

“That’s a great idea! It’s in room one-ten of the history building. We can go hit a pub afterwards…grab a sandwich and a brewski.”

“Sounds good.”

Richard and Sullivan continued to make arrangements, but all I could think was:
So much for our picking up where we left off last night
.

Remembering belatedly that I was still in the room, Steve clapped his mentor on the back and turned toward me. “Richard Thayers, this is Erin Gilbert. Erin, Richard.”

I rose for a moment, and we exchanged “Nice to meet yous” and shook hands over my desk. I hoped that his socially required pleasantry was less insincere than mine. It was not as though I’d set the bar especially
high
, after all.

“Have a seat,” Sullivan suggested, giving Richard a pat on the back. The three of us moved from our desks to our cozy nook near the window. We always allowed our visitors to sit first, then, if it was available, Sullivan would grab the leather smoking chair and I would grab the yellow slipper chair. Today I strode directly to Sullivan’s smoking chair and plopped myself down in advance of our guest. I hated that I was acting so petulant, but it was the best I could do. At least I was keeping my mouth shut. Part of me wanted to ask Thayers: Do you realize you’re wrecking my love life?

Sullivan took my usual seat. Once Richard looked settled into place on the sofa, I said, “Steve tells me that you’re stepping down as Earth Love’s finalist judge.”

He nodded grimly. “It was the only responsible thing to do.” He sighed. “Too bad. I read the reports from the initial-rounds’ judges and saw the photographs. Stratton’s interior was by far the best. Not surprisingly.” He winked at Sullivan. (Also known as “S.S.,” apparently.)

“Thanks,” Sullivan said, beaming. “Got to say that I agree with you. Though I’m partial. But I also have to admit, Darren Campesio’s architectural design is interesting and really energy efficient.”

“That’s the one that’s partially built into the hillside, right? So that the place is part cave? À la ‘Batman’?”

He was mocking the house, sight unseen. Annoyed, I chimed in. “The design compensates for the windowless portion fairly well. The space makes great use of skylights and mirrors.”

Richard looked at me with wide eyes, then blinked a couple of times, as if puzzled. “Ah. Glad to hear it.”

“And I’ve got to say that the interior for the third finalist has a lot to be said for it, too,” I added.

“She means Margot Troy’s place,” Sullivan explained unnecessarily—assuming Richard could subtract two from three. “But Erin’s hardly unbiased. She designed Margot’s kitchen, a couple years back.”

“Did she?” Richard asked, again raising his bushy eyebrows. “Too bad you both didn’t just stick to working on Margot’s house.” He shook his head. “When I agreed to judge, I didn’t know Burke Stratton was even in the competition, let alone a finalist.”

Sullivan was nodding as though he was following Richard’s thread, but I remained on the outskirts. “And you’re biased against Burke, so you recused yourself?” I prompted.

Richard nodded and, in a gesture eerily reminiscent of Sullivan’s, dragged a hand through his messy, patchy hair. “The two of us have a problematic relationship, and I can’t begin to be impartial toward that pompous peacock.” Shifting his gaze to Sullivan, he said, “If I were you, I’d disassociate with Stratton A.S.A.P.”

“Because you think he cheated somehow?” I asked.

“Oh, he most definitely cheated,” Richard said with a snort. “There’s no doubt about that.”

“How so?”

“Evidence, my dear. Evidence.” He chuckled. I battled the urge to grit my teeth or to fire off a sarcastic reply. Before I could ask:
What
evidence? he continued, “Sorry to be so vague. But when word of what Burke is
really
up to gets out, no one will want to have their names associated with him or his residence.”

Sullivan and I exchanged glances, although his was something of a glare. Why was Richard paying us a personal visit if he wasn’t going to pass along any helpful information? “I’m sorry, Richard, but I’m confused. You didn’t know till last night Burke was in the contest. His house passed the numerous inspections for the previous rounds with flying colors. And yet this afternoon, you’ve found such a major violation that you’ve suggested it may be a criminal matter. How did you get from point A to point F so quickly?”