Decorating Schemes

by Ginny Aiken

  “I can’t wait to see what you think about the cerise silk I found,” I told Deedee. “It’s going to make wonderful window coverings for the living room.”

  The sari fabric went over with the kind of success Adrienne had expected. So did the vintage-style floral print, and even the black-and-white gabardines got passing grades. So far I’d batted a thousand.

  “What about furniture?” the new Mrs. Marshall asked, her smooth brow furrowed in a frown. “You haven’t shown me any.”

  “I changed my mind. I brought a catalog with me the other day, but I think I’d like to take you to a particular showroom instead. The place I have in mind specializes in custom work, and I know we’ll get what you want there.”

  Deedee giggled. “We’re going shopping! When?”

  “They’re only open on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. How about Thursday?”

  “Thursday? That’ll be perfect. Do you want Stew to come with us?”

  “If he wants. But most men are shopping-phobes.”

  She leaned toward me and glanced over her shoulder. “He only likes to buy golf clubs and medical equipment. That’s so boring.”

  I zipped my portfolio back up. “Then that’s settled. It’ll be a girls-only deal.” Something occurred to me. “Would you like your mother to come with us?”

  Deedee’s smile tightened. Interesting. “That’s not necessary. She and I don’t have the same taste. She likes all this old stuff around here.”

  So did I, but why mess with success? “Okay. I’ll see you Thursday at... say, ten-ish?”

  The beautiful blonde showed me to the door, and I figured Domingo was history. It was just as well. He’d probably have a coronary if he saw what Deedee wanted to do to the house.

  I covered my head with the portfolio, even though nothing could help my uncivilized hair, and dashed to the Honda. Inside I wiped off the black leather exterior of the portfolio with an old towel and stuck the key in the ignition. But before I gave it a turn, a movement at the right side of the house toward the back caught my attention. A large fern jerked and bobbed with no apparent cause, and then a shrub of some sort did the same.

  It wasn’t windy.

  There was nothing in the landscape that would cast a long, large, male shadow.

  This one continued its trip down the Marshalls’ landscaping.

  Someone was out there.

  I knew I should call Lila and her Smurfs, but I didn’t want to risk losing the skulker. It could be KC’s killer.

  The rain continued its steady fall, the sound a comfort to my Pacific Northwestern ears. I especially appreciated its patter today, since it would help mask whatever noise I might make.

  Seconds after I stepped out of the car, I was soaked. So much for the portfolio.

  I usually wear light cotton skirts in the summer, but the denim one I was wearing was a favorite, and I’d wanted something as far removed from pink as possible. Once saturated, however, denim weighs more than rocks and clings like Saran Wrap. Sneaking became a challenge.

  But I persevered. Once I reached the middle of the house, I stepped out from behind the cover of the bushes, intent on ID’ing my skulker. But I didn’t count on Mother Nature’s betrayal. I slipped on the mud and mulch, flailed, then grabbed a thick clump of rhododendron.

  I might have squeaked. I don’t think I went so far as to squeal. Of course, my object was never to wallow in mud, but by now my Birkenstocks felt like cement blocks, and I saw no sign of my feet.

  Misery.

  Long legs—male legs—blocked my line of vision. “What did I do to deserve you?”

  “You!” I glared. “Why can’t I turn around without tripping all over you, Dutch Merrill? Why are you mucking in the mud out here?”

  “I’m not the mud pie.”

  A glance revealed my skirt’s new random design of brown blobs. “I slipped trying to see who was sneaking around the house. And here it was you the whole time.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking. I’ve been out here taking measurements for a while now. You’re the one hiding behind a shrub.”

  Then he gave me a wicked smile. “Don’t forget what happened the last time I found you snooping.”

  I shuddered. It had involved rats. And slime. And a trash shed. That’s where the Bali H’ai–attracting slime had come from. “You’re such a gentleman to remind me.”

  “You’re welcome. Care to share why you felt the need to follow me?”

  “I’m not following you. I came to show Deedee a selection of fabrics. I’m doing a redesign here, remember?”

  “How can I forget?”

  Bitterness underscored Dutch’s words. He seemed to sag, and his shoulders bowed as though they bore the weight of the world.

  Sympathy came uninvited. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. I just love being accused of the most disgusting things a man could ever do, when all I want is to land a job.”

  The emotion in his words gave me hope and cleared up the hint of fear I’d felt when I realized who my skulker was. Could a guilty man sound so revolted by KC’s fate?

  I met his gaze. “I know how accusations feel. Remember? I was there not so long ago.”

  He studied me for long moments. Rain flowed over him. He looked less powerful, more vulnerable. When he spoke again, it was in a raw, rough voice.

  “I’d never hurt a child. Never, Haley. You have to believe me.”

  His anguish struck a familiar chord. “If that’s the case, then you’ll be fine once Lila finds the killer.”

  “Don’t you get it? I would have thought you of all people would. I don’t have all the time in the world here. Lila’s on the warpath, and she’s sure I’m her man.”

  Problem was, I did get it. But I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t playing me for a fool. “Then talk to her—”

  “Hah! I’ve talked and talked until I had no more words in me. What I need is help. Someone who’ll help me figure out who killed KC, who got her pregnant in the first place—it wasn’t me.”

  “I’m glad you deny it.”

  Anger returned to his face. “Is that the best you can do?” He ran long fingers through his drenched hair. “Look, Haley. You did pretty well for yourself last year. Won’t you give me a hand here?”

  Was he saying what I thought he was saying? “How can I give you a hand?”

  “Don’t act dumb. It looks terrible on you. Help me find the killer. I have to clear my name. I’ve already gone through the devastation of a trial, then the delay on the Gerrity job, and now this. I have no money left. Most of what Noreen paid me went to cover my last legal bills.”

  I was torn. I did know how he felt, that desperation, the feeling that life as you once knew it had come to an end. But Tedd’s voice asking that one question echoed in my mind.

  The fear felt like a brick wall. Dread gripped my gut. Had Dutch raped and killed KC?

  “Look, Haley. I was there for you when you were dying. If I hadn’t come along, you’d be dead. Way I see it, you owe me.”

  “What? Are you nuts? You spent most of that nightmare time trying to put me behind bars. If it hadn’t been for Bella going after you, you’d never have come—and at the last minute, I might add.”

  “But I did come. And you’re here now because of me.”

  “You could’ve come around sooner, you know, helped me rather than accuse me. Then I wouldn’t have had to drink that morphine.”

  “Who barfed on who?”

  “Whom.”

  “Who cares? I’m not talking grammar here. I’m talking give and take. I gave you help. You barfed on me. That’s two you owe me.”

  “I did not. It didn’t even touch you.”

  “That’s a minor technicality.”

  “No way. That’s the point.”

  “Forget it. Are you going to help me? Or are you going to let Lila jail me for a murder I didn’t commit?”

  Last year I’d questioned how so many could think I’d killed Marge, how they could let
Lila arrest me. I knew how he felt. And I knew the only way to put my doubts about Dutch to rest was to learn the truth about what had happened to KC.

  My contrary alter ego piped up. You just kinda like him.

  A long moment went by as the thought percolated. Was it true? Did the attraction I felt affect my decision? Did I want him to be innocent because I couldn’t face the possibility that I’d let another rapist, and this time a murderer, catch my eye?

  I met his gaze. There should be a way to see into another person’s soul, but all those poets who say the eyes are the windows to that soul? They’re wrong. You only see little white balls with circles of varying colors. Facial expressions can be donned and doffed with thespian ease.

  Then I remembered an earlier moment of decision. Dutch asked me to trust him last year. And I had. Maybe I made that choice at a safer moment, one where I hadn’t worried about criminal intent.

  His criminal intent.

  He’d seemed genuine then.

  And I had to find that missing baby. He could help.

  If he was clean.

  “I can’t promise anything solid,” I said. “But I will help you—only if you help me.”

  “How’m I going to help anyone if I can’t even help myself?”

  I looked down at the soggy mess I’d made of my favorite sandals. “I can’t stop thinking and thinking about it, Dutch. It’s tearing me apart. I have to know. I have to.”

  He reached out and touched my arm. His warmth came as a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t realized how chilled I was. I took a difficult, earth-laden step toward him.

  The clasp grew tighter. “What is it you have to know?”

  I met his gaze. “I have to know about the baby. I have to do whatever I can to protect it, to keep it safe. I can’t let it die like—”

  My words froze in my throat.

  For long moments we stood in the rain, not more than ten yards away from where I’d found KC. I felt as though the water should wash our worries away. But it didn’t. Only the truth could do that.

  He gave a wry chuckle. “This is crazy, you know? Why don’t we go somewhere to talk? There’s got to be a better place than out in this monsoon.”

  I chuckled—I tend to laugh when I’m nervous or self-conscious. Right then either emotion could take the blame. “A venti double-shot caramel macchiato should hit the spot. How about you?”

  “Coffee sounds good. Starbucks okay?”

  “There’s another kind?”

  He laughed. “I’ll meet you at the one at Sands Avenue and Windswept Drive.”

  “Give me ten minutes. I can’t walk in there like this.”

  He looked down. The laugh was real. “Good enough. But take twenty. You’ll need the extra time.”

  As he walked away, I began to get cold feet—figuratively, of course. Literally speaking, my feet had been freezing for a while now. That mud was cold.

  Had I done the right thing? Was helping Dutch a good idea? And what about my motives? Did I simply want to help a fellow man? Or was the attraction I’d only just admitted to at the root of my decision?

  That was the most dangerous possibility. The one I had to eliminate. I couldn’t afford an attraction. I wasn’t ready for one, not yet. Five years wasn’t long enough.

  And I didn’t know if I could trust Dutch Merrill.

  I’d have to watch my back.

  And guard my emotions.

  It took a lot longer than ten minutes to scrape enough gunk from my feet to walk into the laundry room at the manse. There I hiked up a leg, propped it on the edge of the utility sink, and scrubbed globs of clay off my toes. Once done, I repeated the acrobatics with the other foot.

  I showered, changed, tied my hair in a knot at the back of my head, and faced Midas.

  “Sorry, pal. Those folks at Starbucks don’t get the doggy deal. They think you’re germy and a troublemaker. I know better than that, so here’s a cookie. And if you’re good, then I’ll take you to the P-A-R-K when I get back.”

  I’d have two mud balls to clean off, but what’s filth compared to doggy bliss?

  Midas gave me one of his more human looks, turned, and stomped off. He didn’t even wait for the cookie. I was in big, big trouble.

  At the coffee shop, Dutch had chosen a booth by the window. I was about to order at the counter, when he waved a venti cup. “Double-shot caramel macchiato, right?”

  I hurried. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “I’m not that round.”

  “Ugh! I didn’t know you suffered from pun-itis.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “At least I’m trying to laugh.”

  I took a long swig of caramelly, creamy coffee. The rich flavors woke up all my taste buds, and I began to feel more like myself.

  My sympathy showed up again. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What do you mean?”

  “I gave you a hard time last year, and now I know what you went through. I made matters worse. I hope you can forgive me.”

  I gaped.

  He reached across the table and, with one long finger, pushed up my jaw. “I’m not that big of a monster, you know.”

  “I know... I mean, you caught me off guard.”

  “Because I did the decent thing?”

  “No. Because it’s so hard to ask forgiveness. It’s such a God thing to do.”

  “Whoa. I’m nowhere near there. I just know what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  Chalk one up for Dutch. “I’m glad. And, sure, I forgave you.”

  “Then we should be able to get somewhere, with the crime and the remodel and redesign of the Marshall home.”

  “What a concept! An optimistic man.”

  “If I let myself think otherwise, I’ll go nuts.”

  I stood. “Been there, done that. Want anything from the counter? I’m going for one of those little wooden stirrers. The caramel’s glopped to the bottom.”

  “Cinnamon would be nice.”

  “Be right—”

  My words died an instant death at the sight of two familiar heads. Together. Lips locked. Not ten feet away.

  I stared.

  I couldn’t move.

  “Haley?” Dutch asked. “Are you okay?”

  Blinking helped. Shaking my head did too. But when I looked again, nothing had changed.

  “Dad’s kissing Madeleine Ogleby!”

  “Madeleine Ogleby?”

  “Yeah, you know. Deedee Marshall’s mom.”

  I checked my watch—2:07. “When he said he was seeing a parishioner at two, this wasn’t exactly what came to mind.”

  Dutch gave me a sympathetic look . “Kinda hard to see your dad play the part of boyfriend, huh?”

  “And then some!” I didn’t know how I felt, but this sure wasn’t the time for navel-gazing or anything. “I’ll be right back with your cinnamon and my stirrer.”

  As I approached the counter, the smoochers saw me. “Haley!” my dad called out. “Come on over. I want you to meet someone.”

  Cinnamon shaker in one hand, stirrer in the other, I approached their table. “I already know Madeleine. I met her at a missionary society meeting.”

  “Would you believe the coincidence?” he asked. “She’s your client’s mother.”

  “Big coincidence.” My smile to Madeleine might have been a bit strained. “I took a stack of samples to Deedee this morning. She’s excited about the project.”

  Madeleine nodded. “That’s all she’ll talk about these days. But tell me. Are you really going to let her fill that fabulous house with pink and black and steel and leather?”

  I arched a brow. “Let her? She’s the client. I just work with her preferences.”

  Dad stood and laid a protective arm around my shoulders. “Wait’ll you see Haley’s work. She’s great!”

  “I have to second that,” Dutch offered.

  Weren’t we the cozy foursome? “Dad, you remember Dutch Merrill, don’t you?”<
br />
  My father’s jaw tightened, but he held out his hand. “How could I forget?”

  Dutch shook Dad’s hand. “I’m glad to see you again, Reverend. Especially since Haley’s much better this time.”

  When Dad blanched, I knew I had to act. “Let’s not go there, okay? Dutch and I have... ah... er... business to discuss. If you’ll excuse us—”

  “Oh, honey!” Dad’s disappointment surprised me. “You can spare a few minutes, can’t you? It’s such a pleasure to have my two favorite ladies together at one time.”

  Dutch pulled a chair from the next table and plopped right down.

  I glared.

  He gave me a deep, meaningful look—which I failed to decipher.

  Then he snagged another chair from the adjacent table, and after he parked it right by his side, he patted the vinyl seat.

  “Take a load off, Haley. We have all the time in the world for business. Get to know your dad’s lady a little better.”

  He wanted to pump Madeleine for info! I wasn’t sure what she could tell us, since she was new to the area and hadn’t even been at the Marshalls’ when KC died, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. Besides, the thought of my father dating a woman other than my late mother needed time to sink in. Might as well start with that right away.

  We talked about Seattle, Wilmont, and Portland, the merits and demerits of each. Deedee’s predilection for a color made infamous by indigestion medication came up after that. Eventually, to my dismay and to Dutch’s obvious relief, he was able to lead the conversation to the two-hundred-pound gorilla at the table.

  “Have the police told you or Deedee anything new about KC?” he asked.

  Madeleine shook her head. “Nothing. But I am worried. I think Deanna’s obsession with the house is a result of the stress she’s under. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have that detective show up at all hours of the day.”

  Dutch and I swapped looks.

  “Did Deedee know KC?” I asked. “I understand Dr. Marshall treated her for a skin condition.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Madeleine said. “But Deedee’s only been in Wilmont since the wedding four months ago. She and Stewart met in Portland. He used to come down to see her rather than the other way around. I’m not sure she knows many of his acquaintances yet.”