False Premises

by Leslie Caine

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “Tell me something.” She lowered her voice, but not the noisy gum chewing. “Is he as obnoxious in person as he is on TV?”

  “Oh, no, not at all.” That was true, but only because Henry was much more obnoxious in person than on TV. No way would I bad-mouth a customer of mine, although in this particular case, it was actually the image consultant my client had hired to revamp his lifestyle who was paying my fee.

  “Good to hear.” Her gum made a wet smacking sound. “His commercials are just so . . . noisy. Figures he’d want his sofa loud, too.” She unleashed a booming laugh into my ear.

  The instant I got off the phone, I dialed Henry’s cell phone. I gritted my teeth when he answered, “Howdy,” in a Texas drawl. He must have been in front of some customers at one of his dealerships. “Hammerin’ Hank,” the TV personality, was from Houston, Texas. Henry Toben, however, was from a small town in Delaware.

  “Hi, Henry. It’s Erin.”

  “Hey, there, li’l darlin’. What-all can I do you for?”

  “Did you go to the sectional-sofa manufacturer and supply them with red Ultrasuede instead of the brown that we’d agreed upon?”

  There was a pause. Hammerin’ Hank drawled, “Tell me somethin’, missy. If ’n I was to plead guilty, is the court likely to show a kindly ol’ cowboy like myself some leniency?”

  I counted to ten. Then to fifteen. I hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night to suffer this pseudo-Texan fool gladly. Our communication was hampered by an even worse obstacle than Henry’s on-again-off-again Texas accent; we had to reach through a layer of management. Henry’s image consultant, Robert Pembrook, had hired me to design Henry’s house, and both men, who were often at cross-purposes, had to approve my design. “The three of us went over this twice. Remember? With Robert Pembrook?”

  “I do indeed, darlin’, but as y’all might recall, I was on the fence at the time.”

  “Actually, Henry, I remember our conversation distinctly.” I kept my voice even, despite my ever-increasing agitation. “When you said you wanted the red, Pembrook said it was ‘too much,’ and you said, ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. Let’s go with the Hershey’s Kisses color.’ ” Henry had then gone on to say that he “might get lucky with the chocoholic babes,” but if I continued to quote him, disgust was bound to creep into my voice. He’d said, “You betcha, darlin’,” every time. And yet both of those conversations had taken place well after he’d already put a stop on the order and, unbeknownst to me, he had swapped our customer’s-own-material at the manufacturers.

  “The trouble is, Henry, I designed the entire room around the brown sectional, as the room’s focal piece. Everything’s already purchased, and almost all of it’s been shipped to my storage unit.” I fought back the image of Laura’s oh-so-still body that the mention of the warehouse had invoked. “Tomorrow they’re shipping the red sofa . . . and one full room’s worth of surrounding furniture is now going to clash with it.”

  “Well, missy, what can I tell you? That dog just don’t hunt.”

  “Pardon?”

  In a slightly muffled voice, Henry said with a chuckle to someone in his vicinity, “ ’Scuse me, y’all. I’ll be back in three shakes of a coon-dog’s tail.”

  While waiting for Henry to continue our decorating squabble in private, I silently reminded myself that when it came to interior design, the customer was always right; the interior of the owner’s home had to be to his or her complete liking, not to mine. However, it was also my job to ensure that five years later, when fads change, the customer wasn’t stuck with a white elephant. Henry could always reupholster his sofa at some point in the future. In the present, however, he was going to get a headache looking at red glaring against all the greens and violets I’d selected for accents and companion pieces.

  “Back with you.” Henry had switched to his Henry-from-Delaware voice. “I meant to tell you about that red. But I guess I’ve been so busy working my ass off at my dealerships, it just slipped my mind, honey. And, by the way, thanks for keeping me posted on where you got the cloth and everything. All I had to do was call the fabric store and buy the exact same thing, ’cept in a cherry lollipop color.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me what you were doing? Or tell Robert?”

  “I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I really, really wanted my couch to be red when he was sold on the brown.”

  “Why couldn’t you? You’re a major tycoon who owns three successful dealerships in Crestview County.”

  “Four, actually. But who’s counting?”

  “Surely you don’t need assertiveness training.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that this Pembrook gay sca—” He stopped abruptly and then corrected himself. “The guy scares me.”

  That had to be a Freudian slip; Henry must be uncomfortable around flamboyant, openly gay men, such as Robert Pembrook. “Remember that Robert works for you, not the other way around.”

  “It sure never feels like I’m the boss when he’s telling me what I need to do with every last little thing in my life. In any case, I want you to handle this, Erin. That’s part of what I’m paying you for. Just tell him that you agreed with me at the last minute, and we went with the red. Understand?”

  “The thing is, Henry, he hired me. Technically, he is my boss. According to my contract with him, he has to sign off on my floor plans, or I don’t get paid.”

  “That’s a problem, all right, because I want the red.”

  I ruthlessly combed my fingers through my hair, desperate to keep a tight rein on my temper. “Henry, the three of us are going to have to sit down again and discuss this.”

  “No problem. Let’s count on that. Matter of fact, this is super timing for the both of us. I’m already scheduled to meet him at two this afternoon, which I’m dreading. Bound to go better with you there.”

  “Why on earth are you continuing to employ someone you ‘dread’ seeing?”

  “Ironic, ain’t it? Bottom line is, I’m getting along with my employees much better ever since I took Pembrook’s advice. I always let my wife deal with personnel matters. She was real patient, even with the perpetual whiners. See, I was the sales guru . . . she was the touchy-feely sort. Ever since she passed away, my workers are in and out of here so fast, I might as well install a revolving door. Till Pembrook taught me how to . . . I don’t know . . . bring out my feminine side during business meetings. Plus, the guy’s got me learning how to impress the ladies, big time, in the process.”

  This client still had a whole lot of learning to do as far as I was concerned. “That’s great, Henry. But, getting back to the issue at hand, I’ve got a roomful of furniture and accessories that are going to be a disaster with a red sofa.”

  “That’s why it’s good that Pembrook brought me such an expert to pretty up my house. You’ll think of something, honey.”

  Once again, I started to count, but hadn’t made it to three before Henry added, “See you at two. Y’all take care, heah?” and hung up on me.

  I grabbed a quick lunch, and calculating that I might as well show Robert Pembrook my recently completed plans for our client’s home now, I collected them and stashed them in my van. I had a few minutes free and decided to check on Sullivan. Not surprisingly, his office was locked tight, so I called his house. The answering machine in his home clicked on, and although I identified myself, he didn’t pick up. A little worried about him, I drove to his home—which would be directly on my way to Denver anyway—negotiated his slate walkway, and used his custom-made brass door knocker. The knocker was typical of a Sullivan design—elegant lines, sublimely suited to its function, but beautiful.

  “It’s open,” I heard him call.

  “Steve?” I said as I cautiously peeked inside. “It’s me, Erin.”

  “I’m in the living room.”

  I rounded the corner and stopped. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness; the blinds in the room were dr
awn. Sullivan lay sprawled on a chaise. Unshaven and rumpled-looking, he was barefoot, in jeans and a white shirt with half of the buttons left undone. The room was in the same shape it had been in the last time I’d seen it, several months ago. Although the few items he had in this room were exquisite, they were a trifle sparse. He had, at least, added a Windsor chair to accompany his chaise, sofa, and coffee table. Once he’d mentioned to me that he’d had to sell off some of his artwork and furniture to pay off his debts in the wake of Evan and Laura’s disastrous betrayal.

  “You’re not answering your phone,” I reproved gently.

  “Didn’t feel like it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d offer you coffee or something, but you’ll have to make it yourself.”

  “Do you want a cup?”

  “Nah. But don’t let that stop you.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”

  He gestured for me to take a seat, and I dropped into his cushy sofa. Upholstered in a neutral mushroom chenille, this heavenly sofa was as soft and cuddly as a kitten.

  “What gives?” he asked. “Are you playing mother hen . . . checking in on me?”

  Despite his sharp wording, my heart felt a pang. He looked so destitute alone in his shadowed room. “Should I claim that I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by?”

  He said nothing.

  “You look like you’ve been lying there all night.”

  “Brilliant deduction.” His eyes were so bloodshot that the sight of them almost made mine water. “That lady police officer you’re friends with came here,” he muttered. “I asked if they’d arrested Dave Holland yet. She said that he insisted he didn’t even leave the house last night . . . that his brother was staying with him, and Dave let the brother borrow his car.”

  “That story’s not going to carry much weight with Linda, or with any of the police, for that matter. Dave didn’t mention his brother being there when the three of us were talking to him a few hours before we spotted the car leaving.”

  “Yeah. I asked her about that. Dave claimed his brother had gone for a late-night jog at the time.”

  “In pitch darkness? In the mountains?”

  “Apparently his brother’s backing up the story.”

  “Out of family loyalty, I’m sure.”

  “I should’ve done a better job tailing him last night. It should have been obvious to me where he was heading the moment he got on the turnpike . . . driven straight to the warehouse district and combed the place till I found her car. I lived with the woman for a year. I knew better than anybody how devious she was. I should have stayed a step ahead of her.”

  “It’s not your fault, you know.”

  “Hmm?”

  “What happened to Laura. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yeah, it is. Has to be. She wouldn’t have even been at U-Store if I hadn’t confronted her.”

  “By that logic, I’m more culpable than you are. I’m the one who realized that she was switching out her expensive antiques for cheap imitations. And brought you to her place. And talked you out of going straight to the police. Do you think I should be feeling guilty?”

  He merely grumbled, “I don’t expect you to understand what I’m going through.”

  “Let me guess. You used to fantasize about wringing her neck. Now that someone did kill her, you think that your ill wishes somehow brought this all about.”

  “It’s not like that at all, Gilbert.”

  “Then what is it like?”

  He refused to answer. After a time he said, “The police suspect me.”

  “But you were with me from nine o’clock on. Which reminds me. Did you tell the police it was eight o’clock when I got to your car?”

  “No . . . quarter of nine. Why?”

  “Figures. The detective was trying to cross me up . . . see if I was certain about the times.”

  “See? There’s your proof . . . I’m their chief suspect. They were trying to break my alibi. I had a motive and opportunity . . . there would have been enough time for me to have driven to her house, followed her to Northridge, and killed her, all before I borrowed the car from my buddy and arrived up there by eight forty-five, when you showed up.”

  “Even so, the police will canvass Laura’s neighborhood. They’ll be able to find someone who saw you parked up there all evening. As soon as they do, they’ll have to cross you off their list of suspects.”

  He scowled at me fiercely, clearly unwilling to concede the logic of my argument. The man seemed determined to both blame himself for Laura’s murder and get himself arrested for it. Why?

  “I told the police I think Laura could have ripped off Evan and returned to Crestview, thinking he wouldn’t follow her for fear of getting arrested. That she underestimated his determination, and he killed her.”

  “Is that possible?” I asked.

  “Of course it’s possible! Evan would do anything for money. If she ran off with his portion of the money they stole from me, he’d hunt her down and kill her. Or Evan could be in on the antiques scam. He could have camped out at the storage unit himself. Laura arrives, they argue, she winds up dead.”

  He’s made Evan into the devil incarnate. I glanced discreetly at my watch. I had to get going. My visit wasn’t doing Sullivan any good anyway; he seemed to be getting more depressed with each passing moment. My time would be better spent trying to resolve the situation with Robert Pembrook and Henry Toben. “Sorry, but I’ve got to get to a job down in Denver.”

  “In Denver?”

  “We’re just meeting there, actually. My client lives in Crestview. He’s a recent widower.”

  “Huh.”

  Trying to throw Sullivan a bone in a last-ditch effort to cheer him up, I said, “Frankly, you’d probably have been a better choice of designers. My client’s in his sixties, but he wants to make his place into something of a swinging bachelor pad. His image consultant was actually the one who hired me.”

  “An image consultant hired you?”

  “As part of a package deal, apparently. He instructs his clients on how to interact with others and spiffs up their wardrobe, and he hires designers to do the same with their homes.”

  He swung his legs off the chaise and sat up to face me. Suddenly Sullivan was giving me his full attention. “What’s his name?”

  “Henry Toben. I’m sure you’ve seen his television ads—‘Hankerin’ for a new car? Come see big Hammerin’ Hank.’ ” Sullivan was staring at me with a furrowed brow, showing no sign of recognition, so I continued, “ ‘I’ll hammer out a deal for y’all.’ Or something like that.”

  “No, I meant what’s the image consultant’s name, not your client’s.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Robert Pembrook.”

  Sullivan sprang to his feet. “Something’s up. That’s another connection to Laura.”

  “What is? Did you and Laura both know Robert Pembrook?”

  “I know of him.” He started pacing, then stopped abruptly and commanded: “Tell me how you got this job. Had you already met the client . . . this Toben?”

  Sullivan sounded just like Linda Delgardio, slipping into grilling-the-witness mode. Still, I decided not to let his interrogation irritate me. “No. Robert hired me to work with him. I didn’t know who the client even was until all three of us got together about three months ago.”

  “So you met Pembrook first?”

  “Essentially. He hired me over the phone . . . long distance. Four months ago. He was finishing up some job in Los Angeles and said that he’d heard good things about me, so, sight unseen, he hired me to work with Henry.”

  “Huh. Sounds like he hired you just a month or so after Laura moved back to Crestview. And had hired you to select her antiques.”

  “What’s all this about, Sullivan?”

  “Robert Pembrook was Evan Cambridge’s boss. A couple of years ago. That’s what Evan was doing when we met: interior makeovers for clients in Denver, while teamed up with an image consultant. Pembrook wa
s moving his business to L.A. but Evan wanted to stay, and Pembrook gave him such a glowing recommendation that I agreed to hire Evan on a trial basis, then moved him into a partnership position.”

  “Did Laura ever mention the name Robert Pembrook to you?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. She was a con artist. I was her mark. She kept her past ties as secret as possible.”

  “Okay, so . . . Evan used to work for Robert in Denver, and now I’m working for Robert. You’re thinking that, because Laura and Evan were partners in crime, Robert’s somehow linked to Laura’s murder in Crestview?” I paused. “Isn’t that a pretty big leap?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not much of a connection, but it’s the only one I’ve got to Evan. Maybe he got in touch with his former boss recently.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and started pacing again. “I’m going to call Pembrook on some pretense . . . see if I can arrange to meet him.”

  I rose. “Clear your schedule and come with me to Denver right now. You can meet Robert and scope him out.”

  He peered at me. “Are you sure you want me to do that? I’m a prime suspect. You’d be better off not getting involved with me.”

  “Too late. I already am involved.”

  My statement, I promptly realized, could be misinterpreted. I blurted, “I’m getting paid a flat fee, so it won’t make any difference to Robert if I tell him that I’m bringing an assistant on board.”

  “So I get to be your assistant?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Lucky me. I need a minute to get ready.” He left the room, calling through the open door, “Good thing the unshaven look’s in style now.”

  I called back, “You realize you’re going to have to actually work as my assistant on this one job, or it’ll look really bizarre . . . my having a new assistant who shows up for one meeting, then disappears.”

  “Good. That’ll give me time to get to know the guy.”

  True to his word, in less than a minute we were ready to go. He’d donned a black suit jacket that had the nice lines of a pricey Italian tailor, shoes and socks, and he now looked annoyingly sexy in an arty, casual way.