Decorating Schemes Read online

  The detective closed her notebook. “To your credit, Mr. Merrill, you haven’t tried to lie.”

  “I have no reason to lie. I know the footprints and the trouble between Ron and me look bad. But I don’t know anything about KC. I don’t know how she got here. I hadn’t seen or heard anything about her since she was six weeks old.”

  “Again, to your credit, the Richardsons say the same thing.” Lila put away her writing implements, then glided to her feet. “You understand that I’ll have more questions for you.”

  He gave a hard, brief nod. “And I’ll have more of the same answers for you. I don’t know how that little girl got here, who got her pregnant, or why she bled to death.”

  Lila headed for the sunroom door. At my side Bella wriggled her way up to her feet. “Excuse me!”

  The detective stopped, turned, and stared. “Yes?”

  “What about the baby?”

  A pang sliced through me, but I didn’t speak.

  Lila turned back to Dutch. “Yes, Mr. Merrill. What about the baby?”

  “I know nothing about the baby.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. “Someone does. Who is it, and where is the child?”

  In the silence that followed Lila’s quiet “I’ll let myself out,” a conviction took root in my heart. As tough as I knew it would be, and as potentially dicey as it could become, I also knew I couldn’t just sit around and wait. Not while a baby was out there, where it might be hurt, where it could meet the same fate as this other child, the one who gave it life.

  I had to find KC’s child.

  The aftermath of Lila’s grilling was as surreal as the lead-up to it had been. At first no one moved, not for long, silent moments. I have no idea how much time went by while we sat—or stood, in Dutch and Bella’s case—like statues, but then Bella’s monster made a second appearance at the outside French door.

  “How did that cat get back outside?” Deedee asked.

  “She probably found an open window,” I answered. Then to Bella I added, “You’d think the dumb cat would learn.”

  Bella sniffed. “Bali H’ai is anything but dumb.”

  “Then how come she’s there—” I gestured toward the animal “—splattered up against the same glass all over again? You’d think she’d have the sense to stay inside if she wants in that bad.”

  The feline screeches started up again, so sharp and loud that they seemed to surround us, so I didn’t catch Bella’s response. It was probably for the best. She loves the ball of malice and fur.

  “What she is, Haley, is talented.” Dutch’s wry tone went over Bella’s head; she had her beast back in her arms. “That cat throws her voice so well that it almost sounded as if her screams came from inside the house.”

  That Bella heard. She preened. “See, Haley? I told you Bali H’ai’s a special cat. Maybe I should send that David Letterman a tape. You know how he has all those special animals on all the time.”

  “Yeah, Bella. And the segment’s called ‘Stupid Pet Tricks.’”

  Her smile did a 180. “Oh. Maybe not.”

  The feline melted in boneless splendor all over Bella’s generous midsection. The owner smiled. “I don’t care. She’s still special. I bet she’s the only centrifugal cat in the world.”

  “What did you call her?”

  “You know, centrifugal. Like those guys with the wooden dummies.”

  “Ventriloquist, Bella. They’re ventriloquists.”

  “Pshaw, Haley girl! Don’t you know anything? Those ventrilocker whatsits are some thingies in the heart. My doctor checked mine out not so long ago. They work fine too.”

  I did some eye rolls. “Ventricular. That’s something related to the ventricle, a part of the heart.”

  Bella lifted a shoulder, a gesture that jiggled the fluid spill of gray fur in her embrace, with no perceivable reaction from the fur.

  “No big deal,” Bella said. “That’s just a bunch of weird words. What’s the big deal is my hot-shot superstar cat.”

  I gave up. “Just keep a good grip on your superstar, and sit down—if you refuse to go home, that is.”

  Back at my side, woman and cat scooted to the farthest reaches of the love seat. Fine. I wanted no contact with the critter, be she talented or not. Give me Midas any day.

  In the split second of silence, during which I experienced an irrational pang of gratitude for the brief break from the pain of tragedy Bella and her beast had offered, I heard footsteps approach. A woman’s pleasant if puzzled voice called, “Deanna? Where are you, Deanna? I just saw that policewoman drive away. What was she doing here again—”

  Madeleine Ogleby fell silent in the doorway to the sunroom.

  I gaped so wide that my jaw almost clipped the sisal rug underfoot.

  “Well,” the newcomer said, a puzzled look on her beautiful face. “Isn’t this something? I didn’t know you had company, dear. And I would never expect to find Haley and Bella here. Have you been attending Sunday services at the Wilmont River Church too?”

  Deedee shook her head.

  “I get around,” Bella added with a pat to Bali H’ai.

  I waved and smiled. “So Deedee is really Deanna.”

  “She’s always had her friends call her that, but I prefer the name my husband and I chose for our only child.”

  A glance at the daughter revealed her tension. Did the new Mrs. Marshall object to the use of her given name or did she object to Madeleine’s arrival? It occurred to me that a mother who walks right into her newlywed daughter’s home unannounced, and that after a move across state lines to be closer to said daughter, might prove more like smother than mother.

  And it was way past time for us to go. I stood. “How about if I call you tomorrow, Deedee?”

  She sent me a grateful look. “That sounds great. Maybe we can make a date for you to show me some fabrics with better color.”

  “Pink.”

  “Pink is in,” she replied as she rose.

  Domingo entered the sunroom. He lurched and staggered under the weight of a massive silver tray laden with silver serving pieces and a platter of finger sandwiches.

  “Oh!” Deedee frowned. “I forgot I sent him to get refreshments. And now you’re leaving. Please, take a couple of sandwiches before you go. He did go to some trouble for us.”

  Domingo glared at his mistress. He clunked the tray on the glass-topped cast-iron table in the far right corner of the room. “You want coffee and tea, you got coffee and tea. I know coffee and tea need sandwich too.”

  Everyone got it.

  With a final disdainful sniff, Domingo left.

  Madeleine tsk-tsked and wrapped an arm around her dismayed daughter. “I’m so sorry, dear. You didn’t exaggerate, did you? He really doesn’t like you.”

  Deedee shrugged and nibbled her bottom lip. The sudden vulnerability gave me a glimpse at yet another facet of Deedee Marshall.

  She lowered her gaze to the floor. “Even though Stew divorced Sharon years before I met him, Domingo thinks I’m in the way of a reconciliation.” She tossed her blond mane. “Sharon’s been in Europe since the final decree. I hardly think she’s pining for old times.”

  Deedee really was more than sugar and spice and all pink things nice. Maybe the job wouldn’t be half as bad as I first thought. But we were now as welcome as fresh-killed skunk at a designer showcase home.

  I stood. “Come on, Bella. We’ve overstayed our welcome.”

  My neighbor gave me the kind of “Do I really have to?” look I normally associate with my beggar dog. I jerked my head toward the door.

  She pouted.

  I gave her what Dad calls the hairy eyeball.

  “Oh, all right.” When Bella stood, Bali H’ai slithered all the way down her owner’s gi and split to parts unknown. Bella turned to me. “Oh dear. Bali H’ai really likes it here in this awesome house.”

  “Get your cat so we can leave this family alone,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Eve
r hear of herding cats?” Dutch asked, clearly amused.

  I blinked—not so amused. “You’re still here. I forgot.”

  “No one’s ever accused me of being forgettable.” He grinned. “I guess there’s always a first time for everything.”

  “Yeah, well, put your ego with your troubles in an old tin can, and smile, smile, smile.” What can I say? I’m addicted to old movies, songs, and books. “While you’re at it, why don’t you give Bella a hand with her cat so I can gather my samples?”

  “Hmm... I have to wonder why you won’t give her a hand yourself. Maybe you and the cat don’t see eye to eye.”

  “Yeah, and maybe you like to think of yourself as my white knight. So prove it and go save me. Retrieve the hair ball. It’s time this circus left town.”

  Bella cooed. “Now there’s a thought. Do you think Bali H’ai’s talents would do better at a circus than on Letterman? I could probably do some business with her in a sideshow tent. You know, ‘Come and hear the ventrilocker vixen here!’”

  My client and her mother eyed us with something akin to horror.

  “A vixen is a fox, Bella.” I hurried to the door. “It’s related to a dog.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She tossed her outrageous hair “She’ll be the talking tigress instead.”

  Just then said tigress darted into the room, dashed between Dutch’s somewhat spread legs, circled Bella’s ankles, flew onto the glass table, crashed into the silver creamer, then leaped to one of the cast-iron chairs, where she perched on the tan cushion and groomed her tail.

  “I’m outta here,” I muttered. “They’re all yours, Merrill.”

  As I stepped into the hall, however, the maniacal beast zipped out past me, her unnatural wails guilty of permanent damage to my eardrums.

  I took another step and entered the Twilight Zone. Bali H’ai shot past me again.

  Headed in the same direction.

  Without going back into the room.

  I blinked, shut my eyes, rubbed them hard.

  “Uh... Haley?” Dutch asked.

  “You mean I’m not seeing things?”

  “Not unless we’re having a mass hallucination.”

  “Told ya my cat was special,” Bella crowed. “She’s like an amoeba in biology class. You know, she’s into that no-mattress-mambo kind of reproduction. She turned into two before our very eyes. Wait’ll Letterman gets a load of that!”

  I turned and met Dutch’s gaze. “What happened?”

  He shrugged and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could eke out even one word, a catfight ensued in the hall. Shrieks and yowls and wails and cries filled the air. A not inconsiderable amount of fluffy gray fur flew.

  No one moved. We just stared.

  Domingo came from the kitchen and muttered some unintelligible Spanish, a tall, full crystal pitcher held high over his head. Without further ado he dumped the whole thing on the fighting felines, who froze under the icy onslaught.

  “I thought you said there was only one of those crazy cats in the world,” Deedee said, awe in her wispy voice.

  I groaned. “Why would anyone clone that mangy monster?”

  “Nasty, nasty, Haley girl,” Bella said. Then she turned to the twin wads of gray. “Aw... Bali H’ai, baby. You poor little thing. That mean man went and messed up your pretty coat. Come to Mama. I’ll take care of you.”

  She reached down for her cat but stopped partway to the sodden fur. “Uh-oh.”

  I chuckled. “I’ll say.”

  “Which one’s which?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Does it matter?” It didn’t to me; both beasts seemed cut from the same cloth. “Unless the clone belongs to one of them.”

  I glanced at mother and daughter, who grimaced and shook their heads. Domingo scooted back to the kitchen, Spanish denials ripe on his lips.

  I turned back to my neighbor. “Well, then, Bella, my dear, it looks like this is your lucky day. You got yourself a twofer.”

  Bella’s blue eyes revealed her concern. “But how am I gonna tell them apart?”

  “Again, does it really matter? From where I stand, it’s the three of you from here on in. One for all and all for one. Instead of the three musketeers, you’re the three B-keteers: Bella and Bali and Faux Bali too.”

  By the time I got home after the nightmare at the Marshall place, my head hurt worse than if I’d spent the morning swinging a rubber mallet at it. It didn’t help that Bella had followed me, her 1965 vintage pink Caddy way closer to my rear bumper than I liked.

  When I parked in the driveway to the manse, I didn’t bother with the portfolio I’d thrown into the backseat. With a slam of the Honda’s door, I gathered up my fury and marched across the street to confront the owner of Bali H’ai and now Faux Bali too.

  Every ounce of frustration I’d held in for the past few days spewed into my words. “Do you realize the kind of chaos you created back there? You probably cost me the job too.”

  Chagrin etched twin lines between Bella’s silvery eyebrows. “Oh, Haley girl, I’m so sorry. I just meant to help. I didn’t want you to get hurt like the last time. I still have nightmares about that day.”

  Talk about nightmares. “I understand your concern, Bella, but I can take care of myself. That’s why I’ve spent the better part of five years working out three times a week at Tyler’s dojo. I don’t need a babysitter, but I think you just might.”

  The hurt in Bella’s blue eyes gave me pause. Oh great. That hadn’t been my intention. I reached out, but she turned away.

  Remorse is hard to swallow. “I’m sorry, Bella. All that’s happened has upset me, and besides that, you have to admit, things got way crazy over at the Marshalls.”

  “Sure, they did,” she said, her back toward me, her tone quiet and serious, unusual for her. “But I didn’t hear anyone else snap or gripe about it.”

  She glanced over a shoulder. “What is wrong with you, Haley girl? I’ve never known you to get so nasty.”

  An alarm bell gave a weak clang in the back of my mind, but I threw a blanket of evasion over it. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired, I have a headache, and I really do want to do the Marshall job. Then there’s the dead girl. And that missing baby.”

  “That is enough to make anyone jumpy,” Bella conceded. “So why don’t you go make yourself a pot of that black tar you like so much? It usually makes you all mellow. I don’t know how, with all that caffeine. But I’ve seen it do wonders for you.”

  “Starbucks does have that effect on me.” I doubted it would do much right then though. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a grouch. I’ll go hibernate in my cave until I turn more human, okay?”

  She raised one shoulder. “If you feel like it, maybe you can come help me figure out which cat’s which after you chill.”

  “Oh yeah. Sure, Bella. I’ll come see you, all right. But when I do, you better make sure your twin menaces are locked up tight.”

  Bella unlocked her front door. “Goodness gracious, you better get a move on. Catch yourself that nap. It might help—something’s got to. I’ll see you later.”

  Once her door closed, I headed home. On the way past the behemoth pink car, I glanced in and saw the whirling dervishes go at it again. By the time Bella got around to retrieving her pets, there might not be much of anything to identify.

  After I grabbed my portfolio and ran inside and up to my room, the restlessness that had tortured me for days only grew worse. Anxiety knotted my stomach, while too many thoughts churned in my mind. I’d never be able to concentrate like this, so I didn’t even consider the possibility of work.

  After I paced back and forth in front of my bedroom window for no less than twenty-five minutes, I surrendered. It was nearly two in the afternoon, and I knew from my copy of the dojo’s schedule that Tyler was about to teach a class in a few minutes. What better way to relieve the tension coiled inside me than to go sweat, kick, and maybe punch a stuffed bag or two?

  I grabbed a clean gi
and drove five over the speed limit, hoping to get there before the class began. I made it too—and without a ticket.

  Kickboxing was the special of the day. Tyler teaches a mongrel mix of martial arts disciplines, a blend all his own yet fully Asian. During his stint in the army, he spent three years in Korea, where he fell in love with everything oriental, especially martial arts. Once he retired from the service, he returned to the Seattle area, married an Asian American doctor, and worked his way to black belt in more disciplines than I knew existed.

  He cuts a formidable figure too: tall, lean, and muscular, head shaved to a shine, dark brown skin smooth and supple. He has a warm and caring personality, his faith in Christ underscores his every thought and deed, and his intelligence and street smarts make him wiser than I like.

  He knows me too well.

  A fact he proved yet again.

  He matched me up with one of Wilmont High’s lanky basketball stars for the sparring match. When the kid yelped after I landed one especially well-placed kick, our sensei’s eyes glittered with something dangerous.

  “Class is over,” he said, then jerked his head toward the studio’s office. “We have to talk.”

  I had no doubt whom he meant. Still, I tried to fudge my way out of it.

  “Oh, sorry. I can’t stay today.” I hustled out to the hall, headed for the locker room for the army surplus duffel in which I carry my gear to and from lessons. “Some of the ladies in the missionary society are getting together at the church to bake cookies and cakes. One of them who’s too broke to foot the bill herself won’t let me pay her way, so we’re having a sale to raise funds so she can join us on our trip to Indonesia—”

  I quit when, bent double over the duffel, I caught a glimpse of his stony stare.

  “In my office,” he said.

  There’d be no way to avoid Tyler’s inquisition. No matter how much I wanted to. No matter how hard I tried to blab my way out.

  Once inside Asian World, as many of us call his themed office, Tyler pointed to his comfy couch. “Sit.”

  I gave him a Heil Hitler salute.