Fatal Feng Shui (4 page)

Emily cried. She dropped one damp white tissue after
another, until they surrounded her like the petals from a dying flower. I sat beside her on the sofa. Gently, I explained how and why I’d found him, and that I knew very little else. I also told her about my friend in the police department—Officer Linda Delgardio—and that I hoped Linda would keep me up to speed with the investigation. My heart ached, and I found myself half regretting that Detective O’Reilly had allowed me to be the one to give Emily the horrible news; he’d agreed to wait an hour or two before he or anyone else from the department spoke to her.

Finally, she’d collected herself enough to speak. “This was the one thing I prayed would never happen…. I never wanted to outlive my child. It was bad enough that I never had the chance to watch you grow up, Erin. Now I’ve lost my only son.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“I wish I’d been a better parent to him. I never knew what to do when he started hanging out with the wrong crowd. I made him change schools. He found an even worse crowd. We moved. Same results. I pleaded. I nagged. I wept. I ignored. I fawned. Nothing worked! I finally went with tough love. I banished him from the house. Six months ago, I turned him into the authorities when I found out he was using again.”

“I know, Mom.”

She met my eyes, startled. That I’d inadvertently called her “Mom” was equally startling to me; it seemed disloyal to my adoptive mom’s memory; she’d died after a lingering illness three years ago. I continued, “You did everything you could do. You couldn’t live his life for him. Taylor seemed a lot more together when I spoke with him yesterday than he’s ever been.”

“Somebody did this to him! He’s been using power tools and nail guns since he was ten years old. He’s never hurt himself. Not once. He was murdered, Erin. You’ve been through this before. You found your father’s killer.”

“The police did,” I reminded her.

“And they wouldn’t have if it weren’t for you. The police are never going to put full effort into finding Taylor’s killer. They’ll just assume it was drug-related. If they run into any dead ends, they’ll just quit.”

“No, they won’t. They’ll treat Taylor like they would anyone else, and they’ll solve it.” I realized at once that I’d spoken with a confidence I didn’t feel.

Emily picked up on my hesitancy. “Erin. Please. You know as well as I do what will happen. They’ll look at this and say, ‘Here’s a dead twenty-year-old handyman with a drug record who tripped over his own nail gun. Tragic accident.’ And that’ll be the end of it.”

A pang of guilt melded with my sorrow. I’d missed Taylor’s twentieth birthday. Now he was dead. There was no way to make up for that now.

An idea struck me. “Remember how Taylor had that hiding place in your old house, between the studs?”

“Sure. He was always one for building hiding places. Especially when he was using drugs.”

“Did he have a hiding place in this house?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Has he hidden anything there since he got out of prison?”

“No. It was emptied out when he went to jail, and he hasn’t been living here since he got out. He rented a room east of downtown Crestview. We agreed that’d be best…if he was living on his own. But he had an old paint can in the garage where he hid things before he…went away. And he did visit me once. Earlier this week…Monday or Tuesday. I can’t remember right now.”

“You should tell the police about his hiding place when they get here.”

“Which I’m sure will be soon…and that they’ll accuse him of dealing drugs again, or something.” She rose. “Let’s go look now and make sure his hiding spot is still empty.”

She led me to her garage. She looked, frankly, like walking death, and I asked if she wanted to be doing this now. She nodded grimly. “To the police, he was just a punk with a record, Erin, but he was my baby. You need to make sure the police get to the bottom of this. Promise me, Erin.”

“I will. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” she said in a broken whisper. An array of cans lined the shelves along the back wall. She reached for a paint can.

“Wait! Fingerprints could be significant.”

“Mine and his will already be on it.” Despite her words, she used a plastic trash bag as a mitt to handle the paint can. She pried off the lid with a screwdriver. “He keeps some sand in the bottom of the can so it doesn’t feel empty.” A look of enormous pain passed across her features; she must have suffered from the realization that she should have used the past tense just now. She muffled a sob.

She stared in surprise. “My God. It’s not empty.”

“You never let on to him that you’d found his hiding place?” I asked.

She shook her head. “It was the best way I could keep tabs on him.”

Using the bag to avoid ruining the evidence, she removed an envelope. It had been curled to fit inside the can. Her hands were trembling. She shook the contents of the envelope onto the concrete garage floor.

Four photographs landed faceup. Each showed a couple in the throes of passion in a silver sedan. I recognized the car immediately. A moment later, I realized that I recognized the couple, as well.

“What had he gotten himself into?” Emily murmured. “Pornography?”

“More likely he was collecting evidence.”

“Evidence? For blackmail?”

I hesitated, not wanting to answer, for there was no other easy explanation. “Maybe.”

“Do you recognize these people? It’s got to be related to Taylor’s murder, don’t you think? That he was maybe keeping these pictures hidden to protect him from somebody?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll take this to the police. We’ll let them handle this.”

“Wait, Erin! I’ve seen that blonde before! She’s got that television show in the mornings. That she copycatted from Audrey’s
Domestic Bliss
show. Isn’t that her?”

“Rebecca Berringer, yes. And that’s Chef Michael from Audrey’s show.” My client.

Our homes are what restore us, reveal our inner selves, and celebrate not only who we are, but who we hope to become.

—Audrey Munroe

DOMESTIC BLISS

Although I had every intention of taking the photographs directly to the Crestview Police Department, I didn’t. I simply couldn’t face the prospect of going from the heartbroken grief of my biological mother’s house straight to the sterile coldness of the police station in general, and of Detective O’Reilly in particular. I first needed to go home and shore up my flagging spirits.

My whole body was trembling as I parked near the slate walkway. Just the sight of the regal stone exterior of the mansion that I was lucky to call my home gave me some solace. As I opened the carved oak door, I desperately hoped Audrey would be here.

I immediately noticed a new bouquet of pristine white calla lilies in the Waterford vase. The vase sparkled with captured yellow light from the chandelier. Seeing such a pretty sight at such a bleak time made my eyes mist again. I took a moment to drink in the atmosphere. I loved every square inch of this entranceway, from the high-coved ceiling to the travertine tile floor—the succulent smoky green wall paint, the roomy coat closet with its paneled doors, the quiet elegance of the precise trim.

Now, however, what I loved most of all was my view through the French doors into the messy parlor. Audrey sat on the Oriental rug, ensconced in some art project for her show. My black cat, Hildi, sat beside her, scrutinizing her every move.

I shed my coat and stepped forward. Audrey’s smile faded as she studied my features. “Erin?”

“The worst thing has happened. Taylor Duncan was killed.” Feeling as though I was in some kind of a stupor, I watched as Hildi leapt onto a cushion of the sofa, apparently wanting to race me to my favorite seat.

“Oh, my God.” Audrey sprang to her feet, showing the grace that had been her hallmark as a former ballerina decades ago. “Sit down.”

I obeyed. She wrapped a feather-soft chenille comforter around my shoulders, swept up my startled kitty from her perch on the cushion, plopped her down in my lap, then took a seat beside me on the sage-colored sofa. “Tell me everything,” my landlady said.

When I glanced at my watch, I was surprised to see
that an hour had passed since I’d begun pouring my heart out to Audrey. Hildi, who only ever stayed where she’d gone of her own volition, had long since left my lap. Having finally talked myself out, I slid the throw from my shoulders and started to rise. “Thanks for listening.”

“Where are you going?”

“The police station. To give them those photos.”

“That can wait. You look like you’ve been hit by a train. You shouldn’t be driving.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe so, but I need to understand. This feng shui practice…isn’t it supposed to be used for self-defense, like karate? And for the betterment of the soul and body? It sounds to me like Rebecca Berringer is using it for evil.”

“That’s a bit of an overstatement. But I agree with the gist.”

“Rumor is she was bragging on her TV show about the whole nasty feng shui battle with the neighbor.”

“Oh, really?” I feigned ignorance; I knew Audrey secretly recorded Rebecca’s shows, but I wasn’t about to force her to acknowledge that fact—and what it revealed about her deep insecurity regarding their rivalry.

“Somebody should de-feng that woman.” A frown marred her patrician features. “Rebecca’s making a mockery of the philosophies. Although I have to admit, her brash statements on her show have piqued even my interest.” She hesitated. “According to my friend’s stories about the show, that is.”

I thought about how Ang Chung was obviously conning Shannon. “Did you know that some practitioners say that they can predict natural disasters for buildings that have bad feng shui?”

Audrey replied, “I’ve heard that, yes, but I’m more than a little skeptical.”

“Me, too. There’s also a Westernized, modern approach to feng shui that I personally can really appreciate. One that takes a common-sense approach to the whole thing.”

“Is that what you practice in your designs?”

Audrey, I realized, was trying to keep me talking in order to get my mind off my half brother’s murder, and I loved her for doing so. “Yes. I tend to use intuitive feng shui—to look at what works for my clients.”

“For example?” she prompted.

“In traditional feng shui, only square-shaped houses are considered lucky. Nowadays, we have attached garages, mud rooms, home offices, and so forth, so designing strictly square homes is rather difficult. Shannon has this lovely work area in a separate wing of the house, which is perfect for her lifestyle, but now she thinks that’s bad feng shui. So Sullivan and I have designed the front deck and a courtyard—including a gazebo—to give the house a square footprint. Without having to actually square off all the external walls.”

“Doesn’t it irk you that you have to jump through hoops for her?” Audrey asked, frowning.

“Not at all. If she hadn’t gotten so concerned about bad energy, she might never have considered remodeling, and then I wouldn’t have been hired. And you’d be surprised how well our design ideas mesh with feng shui. It is wonderfully instructive when it comes to furniture placement, and for reminding you to balance and harmonize rooms with a wide range of textures and materials. Also to bring the outdoors into your rooms. Everyone knows to use greens and blues to cool rooms and reds and yellows to warm them. A feng shui consultant would suggest the very same thing with colors for the exact same reason, but he’d call them yin and yang.”

“Which reminds me,” Audrey said, racing over to snatch up her Tiffany notebook and pen from the side table. “You once gave me that quick rundown on dos and don’ts of color. I was going to talk about color on my show next week.”

“You’re reaching deep for diversions now, Audrey.” I gave her a sad smile.

“But I really want to hear your answer, Erin.”

“Use reds in dining rooms and kitchens, because it flatters both foods and people’s complexions. Blue isn’t good for dining rooms. It’s a yin—cooling—color that’s great for bedrooms and to calm the spirit. Greens are also cool and soothing and yet rejuvenating, because they’re natural, outdoorsy hues. Yellows aren’t good for complexions. So you want to avoid using them in super-small bathrooms, but otherwise they warm and cheer rooms. Purple’s good for meditation, spirituality, deep thinking. Pink is the most sedative of all colors. Which is why it’s also great for bedrooms. Orange is good for gathering places because it stimulates and sustains conversation.” I sighed. “I think that’s the rainbow in a nutshell.”

She studied me anxiously. “Did you want me to go with you to the police? Give you a little support?”

“No, thanks, Audrey. I’m fine. Really.” But my thoughts flashed to the sight of poor Taylor on the Youngs’ foyer floor, and tears burned my eyes. “I just…He was so young. He didn’t deserve this.”

“As we both know, my dear, life isn’t fair. All we can do is treat others with loving care, and try to make ourselves as receptive to loving care as we can.”

“Nobody treated Taylor with loving care. That’s why he’s dead. And if loving care toward him was the measure I should have used, I failed him miserably.”

“So you’re discounting how hard you and Emily worked together to try to keep him out of jail and off drugs last year? You know, Erin, in any given day, we can always focus on our failures and on the countless things we wished we’d done…what we would have done if only we’d been clairvoyant. The fact of the matter is, sometimes even our best still isn’t good enough. Often, the hardest person to treat with loving care is yourself.”

I thanked her for her advice. Frankly, though, I doubted it was even possible to treat myself with “loving care” under these circumstances. It felt as though I had a cavernous hole in my heart. The only way I could imagine myself ever closing that wound was to see Taylor’s killer behind bars.