Decorating Schemes Page 9

  “You’re not a mess. You took another hit, and it takes time for a person to regain her balance. Keep on keeping on. The Lord is with you, but you might want to cut down on the screaming. If you talk too loud too much, you won’t hear his voice. That’s what you need more than anything else right now.”

  This time I managed a chuckle. “Dad would say I’m kinda deaf when it comes to this kind of thing.”

  “Nah. You heard the Father’s call last year, and that was a horrible, rotten time. Don’t tell me you forgot your stay at the Jailhouse Ritz.”

  I shuddered. “Never. And you’re right. That was a horrible time. At least Lila hasn’t rattled her snazzy chained bracelets at me this time. She’s after Dutch these days.”

  “Dutch? The builder? How does he come into this?”

  “KC was his godchild. Dutch and her father have been feuding for years. Lila’s got her mind made up that he had something to do with the death.”

  Tedd’s look made me squirm. Then she asked, “Do you think he could have?”

  I’d danced and dodged, not ready to check out my thoughts on this. Trust the canny Latina to force me right to it. But I didn’t know what I thought. And I told her that with the hope that she’d let me off easy.

  But then she hit me with the single most sordid, repulsive, stomach-turning thought, the one I’d worked hardest to avoid.

  “Do you think Dutch might have fathered the child?”

  I gagged. Before I totally embarrassed myself, I made a run for the ladies’ room. There I slammed shut the metal door to a gray stall and heaved over and over again. I retched. I panted. Cold, heavy sweat drenched my clothes. The sour stench spawned more nausea. I vomited until there was nothing left inside.

  Dizziness nearly felled me. I clung to the toilet-paper holder as if my life depended on its support. It may well have. The hard sharp edge that cut into my palm helped me remember the world beyond the pictures in my head.

  Eventually, nothing more came out. Not even tears. Or sweat. I flushed and then just stood there, weak in the knees, bowed over, one arm around my middle, the other still fused to the toilet-paper holder.

  “Haley?” Tedd asked. “I called Doc Cowan. I was about to do 9-1-1, but I figured I should check with him first. He says this happens to you on a regular basis, whenever stress or fear get to you. He also said I didn’t need an ambulance if you stopped soon enough.”

  I moaned.

  “Should I take that to mean you need an ambulance?”

  Tedd sounded so worried, so scared, that I called up what little strength I had left to pull myself upright. “He’s right.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Obviously, I hadn’t eased her mind. I yanked out a mile of toilet paper, wiped my face, neck, and mouth, then dumped the disgusting wad into the toilet and flushed again. A flick of a finger slid the door latch aside. I took a shaky step out of my gray cell. “I’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t look okay.”

  “I know.” I splashed handfuls of water on my face again and again and again. After I rinsed my mouth, I drank a sip. When that didn’t instigate another upheaval, I swallowed more water, cool and cleansing and soothing.

  I wished something would do the same for my head.

  When I went to reach for paper towels, Tedd gave me a bunch. “Thanks.”

  She lowered her gaze. “I don’t know what for. I pushed you too far and brought this on you.”

  “You didn’t. It was coming. It was just a matter of time.”

  “Sure, but I’m the one who sprang it loose. I’m so sorry.”

  I tossed the towels in the trash before I faced my friend. “Don’t apologize. I have to learn to deal with bad stuff. I buckle under that kind of pressure. That’s not good.”

  What I am is a wimp. Crummy stuff always comes down in this fallen world, but when it comes down on me, I crumble.

  I squared my shoulders. “I am better, Tedd. At least now I can let myself look at things—especially the worst things—not just avoid the possibility of Dutch’s guilt like I have all this time.”

  Tedd looked unsure, but there wasn’t much else I could say. I reached out a hand. She took it and squeezed.

  My smile wouldn’t have rivaled even the dimmest bulb in a chandelier, but it did put in an appearance. “I really have to head home. I need a shower, toothbrush and toothpaste, shampoo. You know. Stuff to get normal again.”

  “You also need food and rest.” At my grimace, she shook her head, sent those glossy waves on a graceful flight over her shoulders. “Don’t even think it. I’ll be checking up on you. You tell your dad to expect a call from me after every meal, and you better sleep too.”

  “You’re such a bully, Tedd Rodriguez!”

  “But you love me anyway. And you know I’m right.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I do. You’re a good friend, and I need every last one I can scrape up.”

  She looked as though she was about to say something more, but then she smiled. “Get going. You’re a mess.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  That night I got no sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, images rushed to taunt me. Instead of fighting them off, I decided to read, watch old movies, clean the bathtub, polish faucets, mop the floors.

  By the time the sun showed up in the east, I was exhausted but too wired to even consider sleep. Besides, I knew there were a million nightmares I couldn’t face just waiting to strike.

  I showered and dressed, grabbed a slice of toast and a piece of cheese, then ran to the car. The trip to the warehouse took me only twelve minutes, during which time I managed to nibble about a quarter of an inch of dry toast.

  That had to count for something, in case Tedd asked.

  With my head as messed up as it was, I knew better than to risk handling dangerous stuff like stripping compounds and nail guns—I wouldn’t even be safe with a hot glue gun in my shaky hands. I figured this was as good a time as any to tackle the mounds of paperwork I normally avoid like the plague.

  At the desk I stared off into space, not seeing anything, trying to turn my mind into a blank slate. I’d almost succeeded, for all of about a minute, when I heard the electronic door opener hum. Ozzie must have driven the company truck home last night.

  I rounded the desk and headed for the belly of the hangarlike building where we store our stock between large sales. Sure enough, my partner sat in the cab of the box truck, his attention on a stack of papers in his hand.

  I waved. “Hey there! What’re you up to?”

  Ozzie opened the truck door, then dropped down to the stained cement floor. “Good morning, Miss Haley. I’ve just taken a moment to peruse the inventory.”

  “What inventory?”

  He looked puzzled but only shrugged. “I’m sorry. I suppose I didn’t make myself clear enough. This is the inventory of the Magruder estate. It took me three days to catalog every last item in that massive three-story mausoleum.”

  “Who’s Magruder?”

  This time he blinked his protruding eyes. “Hershel and Sylvia Magruder, of course.” He spoke slowly, as though using all his patience. “You handled the telephone call from their grandchildren when they rang us three weeks ago, Miss Haley. Don’t you remember?”

  I soughed out an impatient sigh. “What? Do you expect me to remember every last little detail of what goes on around here?”

  Ozzie took a step back. “Oh dear. Are you quite all right this morning? Do you feel well?”

  Not really, but I didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m fine. So tell me. Is there... ah... anything good in the... er... McCracken’s stuff?”

  “McCracken? Oh! You mean the Magruders’ pieces.”

  The expression on Ozzie’s face was priceless. He knew his greatest fear had come true. His partner was a loon.

  I had to try a little harder. “That’s right. The Magruders. What’d you come up with? Anything good?”

  “Well, miss, you know, of
course, that Mrs. Magruder collected antique quilts, and since they lived in central Pennsylvania, her Amish pieces are exceptional. She also had a handful of Civil War quilts that are in excellent condition and should sell very well. Then there are the guns we discussed—quite valuable, I might add—the hand-carved tall clock in pristine condition, a highboy that has the most marvelous patina, boxes and boxes of silver...”

  As we returned to the office part of the building, I let Ozzie continue enumerating his finds. I didn’t remember the quilts, guns, silver, or the phone call about the Magruders. Magruders... Magruders... Magruders...

  Nope. Didn’t ring any bells.

  I cut into his description of a piece of English flow blue transferware that had him in thrall. “How did you fill the truck with all that stuff?”

  He gave me another bewildered look. “I didn’t, miss. I couldn’t possibly have. I drove the truck to SeaTac airport three days ago, left it in long-term parking, flew out to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, did the inventory, packed a number of items to bring with me, made arrangements to ship the rest, flew back, and loaded the truck with what I brought, and now I’m here.”

  “And I’m supposed to know about this?”

  Ozzie began to twist his hands. He blinked over and over again, his eyes darting from wall to desk to floor. “Oh dear, Miss Haley. Something must be frightfully wrong with you. We spent days making the arrangements for the trip east. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten all that. Are you quite all right?”

  “Um... I’ve had a rough couple of nights. Haven’t been sleeping well. But it’s nothing that a good night’s rest won’t cure.”

  I wish.

  He looked doubtful. “I hope so, miss. We have a huge sale scheduled for two weeks from today. I certainly hope you haven’t forgotten to prepare the catalog or to send out notices to the papers.”

  I vaguely remembered renting a portion of the convention center for an upcoming sale. “That’s fine. I should be able to catch up on my sleep by then.”

  As long as Dutch, Lila, Deedee, Bella, and the Balis stayed far, far away, that is.

  Ozzie gave me another of his nebbish looks, the kind only the most experienced worrywarts can come up with. “Why don’t you go home, miss? I can handle things from here on in. It strikes me that you could use a nap.”

  I went to object but realized I wasn’t going to do anyone any good here. “Thanks, Ozzie. I think I’ll take you up on your offer. And I’m sorry I gave you reason to worry.”

  “That’s quite all right, miss. You just take care of yourself. The business will be waiting here for you when you are well again.”

  I hoped I didn’t do anything so dumb that I would harm the legacy Marge Norwalk had left me. She’d worked for years to build up the business. The way I was going, it wouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours to tear it all down.

  My Honda started right up—at least I could count on that. I drove down the twisty streets of Wilmont, my mind miles and miles away from the steering wheel and the road.

  As they had since my episode at McDonald’s yesterday, my thoughts returned to Dutch. I’d had reservations about him from the start. His notoriety preceded him, and it had predisposed me to mistrust him.

  Now I had no alternative but to question his honesty, his integrity, his character. Was the man who’d saved my life a year ago capable of molesting a teenage girl? Of impregnating her? Of taking out his revenge on an innocent?

  Was the man—the only one in five years—who’d caught my eye and sparked a rare and unexpected flash of attraction capable of something as despicable as that?

  Could I be attracted for the second time in my life to a man capable of rape?

  Instead of going home, as I told Ozzie I’d do, I decided to drive by Magnus Mills, one of my absolute favorite places. Old Orville Magnus founded a weaving mill in the 1920s, and it’s been in the family since. About ten years ago, when Craig Magnus went into semiretirement, he passed the baton to his daughter, Adrienne, a fabric genius. Adrienne gave the company new life.

  With her army of smart buyers, Adrienne has made Magnus Mills a powerhouse in the fabric world. They offer unique material from every continent at bargain prices. She bases her prices on that cost, not on what chichi designers can and will pay. She’s no fonder of snooty celebrity decorators than I am.

  I’m one of her most devoted clients.

  She’s the closest thing to a mother I have left.

  I’ve known Adrienne my whole life. She, Marge Norwalk, and my mother were the closest of friends; I called them Auntie Marge and Auntie Adie as a kid. Sometimes a woman needs a dose of mothering, even when the person she hits up for it is a former Hollywood starlet who left the entertainment jungle for love and marriage.

  I love Adrienne and her wares.

  The lobby of the Magnus Mills office and warehouse complex is an impressive place with floor-to-ceiling gossamer gold silk draperies, black rugs, and creamy chenille-covered sofas. At the reception area, I found a young woman I didn’t know manning the phone console.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  The black and gold plaque helped me out. “Hi, Emma. I’d like to see Adrienne, please. Would you tell her Haley is here?”

  The girl, probably another of Adrienne’s kids from Seattle Pacific University, a Christian college she supports in various ways, including jobs for students, gave me an “Are you nuts?” look.

  “You’re not on her appointment schedule,” Emma said. “I can’t interrupt her.”

  “I’m family.” That wasn’t a real lie; she was my auntie Adie. “Besides, I just spoke to her on the phone.” That was all true.

  Still skeptical, Emma clicked away at her computer keyboard. Seconds later, the bing of incoming email rang out.

  “Oh!” she said. “You did talk to her. She says you should go right through to her office.”

  “Thanks.” I pushed the heavy metal doors into the belly of the structure and headed toward the warehouse floor. Unlike many executives, Adrienne prefers to stay close to the heart of things. I rapped on the partly open door to her glass-enclosed cubicle.

  “Hey, glamour girl,” I called out. “I came to hold you up for some loot. What ya got for me?”

  Adrienne slipped out from behind her beat-up old army-surplus desk, arms outstretched. “It’s so good to see you, sweetie.”

  The fashion plate nearly folded herself in two to hug me.

  I chuckled. “Hey, jolly green. If you didn’t wear those shish-kebab sticks instead of shoes, you wouldn’t have to bend down so far to reach the rest of us humans.”

  She straightened and winked. “Just think. Who will quibble with my prices when I’m bigger than they are?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Ooh, I’m shaking in my Birks!”

  She buffed her short, square nails on the lapel of her mint-green silk jacket. “I try.”

  Then she got serious. She looked at me long and hard. “What’s wrong?”

  I’d come for comfort, not an inquisition. “What’s the deal? I barely walk in here and you dig right into my psyche.”

  Adrienne crossed her arms and tapped the toe of her painfully pointy-toed emerald green Manolo. “Comes with the territory, kid. Don’t forget, I’ve been around you since I had to change your diapers. I know when something’s wrong. So tell me, what’s up?”

  I collapsed into the cloud-soft armchair in front of her desk. She returned to her old leather chair on the other side.

  There was no way to avoid Adrienne’s concern. I had to come clean. “I’m beginning to think I have a bull’s-eye on my back. You know about the dead girl at the plastic surgeon’s house last week?”

  Adrienne groaned and lowered her forehead to her hands. From behind the silky curtain of prematurely gray hair, she said, “You’re in trouble with the cops again.”

  “Not me. Not this time. But I did find her. And it wasn’t pretty.”

  “That I got from the article in the paper. What happe
ned?”

  I told her what I knew and still played a good game of dodge ball when it came to my doubts and fears about Dutch. Even with that little omission—Little? Yeah, right, Haley—the story was gruesome enough.

  At the end I just sat, drained, miserable, unsure of everything.

  Adrienne’s chair squeaked when she leaned forward. “Maybe she went to see Stew.”

  “You know the doctor?”

  She gave a vague wave. “I’ve met him at some social events. Brad’s firm manages Stew’s investments, even though he isn’t Brad’s personal client. These days my dear hubby runs the company and doesn’t do much hands-on investing.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  She looked gorgeous even with her nose all wrinkled up. “He’s too slick for my taste. I’d never pay anyone to erase my lines—I’ve put in years of hard work to earn each one of them.”

  I laughed. “Uh-huh. The day a wrinkle has the guts to show up on your mug is the day I watch a flock of pigs flit over Mount Rainier’s peak.”

  “I do so have wrinkles. See? Right there, at the corner of my left eye.”

  Her finger pointed to beautiful skin under minimal makeup.

  “Oh, for sure. You need a bucket of Botox right there, right now.” I thumbed my chest. “Just look at me. At the rate I’m going, I’ll look old enough to be your grandmother by next week.”

  “Okay, since I refuse to argue with you, why don’t you tell me what kind of loot you’re after?”

  “Wait’ll you hear. The doctor’s new bride has a thing for pink. You should have seen the look on her face when I brought out my tasteful, chic neutral fabric samples.”

  “I did hear he’d remarried. And she wants pink? In that fabulous house?” Adrienne shook her head. “What a waste. I’ll never forget the Christmas party he held there last year. Gorgeous antiques and excellent fabrics.”

  “Yup, that’s how I see it too. But ‘Pink is in,’ she says, so pink it is.”

  “Better you than me.” She shuddered and pointed toward the warehouse. “Let’s go see what we can come up with.”

  I followed like a klutzy puppy in its graceful mama’s shadow. Her stilettos click-clicked against the concrete floor. My Birkenstocks slap-slapped along. Even though my style doesn’t sink a thousand ships, Adrienne’s kind of shoe is a galaxy or two beyond me. I’d fall flat on my keister if I ever tried them on.