Design on a Crime

by Ginny Aiken

  "No time like the present." I wanted nothing more than to finish so I could go home. "I left the box in the living room when we got here. Let's start there."

  Things went well in that room. It wasn't until we got to the dining room that I noticed the feverish light in Gussie's eyes.

  My stomach sank.

  "I have to thank you for the fine job you've done on our home." Gussie's voice came out sharp and excited. "You've taken good care of me, and it's only right that I take care of you now."

  That was all I needed.

  "I'm fine, Gussie. I take pretty good care of myself. Remember what you told Bella. I've been studying martial arts for a while now."

  She waved. "That's not the kind of care you need, honey. I have to make sure they don't lock you up in that horrible jail again. I know how to do it too."

  Gussie spoke fast, seemingly propelled by some powerful force. I wondered how much medication she'd taken, if it had affected her more than usual. If that was what made me fear her so much.

  "I can't let you suffer," she added. "I have a plan."

  "A plan?"

  "Everything's ready." She pointed to the table, where a pen lay on some sheets of paper. "You just have to write your friend the detective a nice note, and then I'll give you something to soothe you, something that'll help you get the rest you need. You've been working too hard, you know."

  Gee, how nifty. The woman who was about to kill me was worried about my rest ... or lack thereof.

  "I'm fine. I loved doing your rooms. And now I can't wait to start on Noreen's new house. She wants to buy the Gerrity, you know."

  Gussie frowned. "I'm sorry. Noreen's going to have to find herself another designer. You need your rest. And I can't go to jail, you know. It's just not possible."

  At least she knew the consequences of what she'd done. "Gussie, no one's going to put you in jail. Just talk to Detective Tsu. She's a very understanding woman."

  Yeah, right. But at this point, I'd say just about anything to save my hide. How had I wound up like this? All I'd wanted was justice for Marge and to stay out of jail.

  "You know that won't work, Haley," Gussie said. "She's not an understanding woman. Look how she nearly got you convicted of a crime you didn't commit."

  As Mom used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound. 'A crime you committed, right, Gussie?"

  She puzzled. "It's not a crime. I had to right an old wrong and keep the same thing from happening again. You understand. After all, it's a matter of justice."

  "Justice or vengeance?"

  "Oh, no! 'Vengeance is mine,' sayeth the Lord."

  That's when I realized how bad things were. Gussie had lost touch with reality. Just as stress had once led her to steal, her damaged mind had made her exact vengeance in the form of murder.

  "But I don't understand where I come in," I said. I hoped I could keep her talking long enough for Dad and Tom to finish their buckets of balls.

  "Well, dear, things have changed now. I can't have you go to jail for Marge's untimely death. That wouldn't be right. And I do have to take care of you, now that your dear mother is gone. You're tired, honey. You need your rest."

  "I'm really fine-"

  "Please take a seat at the table, Haley." Although Gussie spoke with her usual gentleness, the gun in her hand spoke otherwise.

  I sat.

  "Where'd you get that?" What was I, crazy like Gussie? Who cared where the gun came from? "Why are you doing this?"

  "Never mind the gun, Haley, and I'm not doing anything, dear. You're writing a note to your detective friend. Please make sure you tell her how sorry you are about Marge's murder. Oh, and don't forget to tell her you helped yourself to my morphine. It does help you get some lovely, lovely sleep."

  Gussie's voice now rang brittle and reedy. She spoke fast, and that wild light in her eyes scared me more each minute.

  "But-"

  "Now, honey, you know it's not nice to argue with Mama. Do as I say, Haley. Everything will be fine." She motored over and reached for the cake stand in the middle of the table. "Here. I made some of that mocha torte you like so much. I have a pot of tea too."

  Gussie sliced a wedge of cake. She handed me the plate, and a morbid chuckle almost slipped out. Coffee-flavored cake was going to be my last meal. Unfortunately, Gussie was going to make me wash it down with tea. I would have preferred Starbucks.

  "Thanks," I said. My sarcasm went right over her head.

  "See?" She smiled her old smile, and for a moment, tears filled my eyes. Another loss.

  Then she added, "Mama knows best, Haley. Here's your tea now. And make sure you drink every drop. Mama put your bedtime tonic in it."

  Horror surged in a rush of nausea, but I couldn't give up. I had to get through this. I had to outthink a woman who had truly lost her mind.

  "Go ahead, Haley. Write that letter like a good girl."

  The gun aimed for my head and never wavered. I took up the pen and wrote a confession to a murder I didn't commit.

  "That's much better, dear. Now, eat your cake while you write. It's past your bedtime, and as soon as you're done, you'll have to go night-night."

  I couldn't give panic a foothold. If I did, I was lost. I wrote and nibbled, nibbled some more. Finally, the cake was gone and the letter written.

  "I'm off to bed now," I said, rising. I could move faster than Gussie. But I didn't know how good and fast she'd be with the gun. I didn't want to find out the hard way.

  "The tea, dear." She clicked the gun's safety.

  She wasn't that far gone. She knew I was a threat, and she knew she had to eliminate me. If I did it right, I could swig down enough of the laced tea and jump her. Once I had the gun, I'd just let my jumpy stomach do its thing. I was nervous enough that nausea wasn't a problem.

  I sipped and grimaced. It tasted bitter, almost as bitter as the knowledge of what had happened to Marge. Gussie must have realized that Marge and Tom had been in contact. They'd only done business, but she must have assumed, based on past experience, that they'd been up to the old affair again.

  She'd snapped. Plain and simple. Hatred like she'd carried for so many years had poisoned her just as the morphine was going to poison me.

  I remembered what Tedd had said. I sure felt alone right now, but I prayed. For the first time in four-plus years, I called out to the God she insisted was at my side. I'm not sure if I did it in faith or desperation, but I knew he held the answer right then. I couldn't save myself.

  But I was going to give it a good try.

  "Drink up, Haley. It's getting late. You must be in bed before Papa gets home."

  I swigged the rest of the foul mess in a couple of gulps, hoping my stomach would rebel.

  It didn't.

  "That's my good girl," Gussie said with a smile. "Now take your note, and let's go lie down in the lovely living room you made for me."

  In that fraction of a second when she glanced at the wheelchair controls, I grabbed the silver Georgian epergne and hefted it at her gun hand. The heavy piece clipped the inflamed wrist. Gussie cried out in pain.

  The weapon flew to the side. I dove after it. Gussie went for it too, but the arthritis held her back. I reached the gun first.

  "Don't do it!" Gussie wailed.

  I aimed, just to keep her from moving. I knew I'd never use the gun. But then the morphine hit.

  The meltdown began in my legs. Before I knew what had happened, I lay on the Aubusson rug I'd ordered. "Hel ... help!"

  Men rushed in, their movements a weird blur. I heard them talk of cops and ambulances, but nothing made sense. I heard a pained keening, not a human sound, but I knew it came from a human, one tortured beyond the point of sanity.

  A woman spoke.

  Another cried, argued, roared.

  A man yelled, "No!"

  Another came and gathered me up in his arms. Everything spun. My stomach heaved; I retched. The last thing I saw was a pair of bright green eyes.

  How many
women throw up at the sight of a green-eyed white knight?

  I know only one.

  Me.

  Poor Dutch-I couldn't believe I thought of him that way now. But he'd only wanted to help. And Bella, bless her nutty heart, after she watched me drive off, worried that I'd gone alone. She could have called Lila and her Smurfs, but instead, in true former-starlet form, she called the good-looking guy.

  The cavalry drove up in a battered truck only to find me sprawled on the floor, doped on morphine, Gussie with a mohair throw in one hand and a gun in the other.

  As Dutch and Bella burst in the door, Dad and Tom drove up. The noise startled Gussie, Bella snatched the gun, and Dutch picked me up. I threw up.

  At least I didn't do it on him.

  Gussie broke down, her wails haunting. When she saw Tom, however, she opened a vial of morphine. Tom cried, tried to wrestle it from her, but she'd worked herself up to a frenzy that gave her greater strength. She downed the whole thing.

  Detective Tsu showed up then, ready to arrest Gussie. The initial test on the sculpture showed blood. By the time the ambulance arrived, there was nothing left to do. The morphine had done its job.

  Lucky for me, or as Dad and Tedd would say, by the grace of God, my nervous stomach did its thing too. I only spent one night in the hospital.

  I recovered quickly. Swallowing my distaste, I met again with Marge's lawyer-I refused to claim him in any way-and made some decisions about my bequest. The first was to give Steve a settlement and send the cheat on his way.

  Then I did something that really felt right. I called Ozzie.

  "I need your help," I told him.

  "What kind?"

  "Well, I seem to recall that Marge said you'd taught her how to do that crazy auction talk. Wanna teach me?"

  He was silent for a beat. Then, "Of course. Does that mean you'll be taking over the business?"

  "Only part of it."

  He gasped. "What part ... what does that mean ... what's on your mind?"

  "I know next to nothing about the antiques and auctions business, Ozzie. I think I'd better get a partner. Know any good ones?"

  This time, the silence lasted forever ... almost. "Come on, Ozzie. Aren't you going to answer?"

  "Miss ... er ... Haley? Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

  "Just so you know, Ozzie. I can't think of a better man to work with, to learn from, or to have as my right hand. Do you still want that share of the business? I figure your expertise is worth at least half."

  His voice shook with emotion. "You won't regret it. I promise. You won't-"

  "Thanks, Ozzie. I know I can trust you."

  Dad walked into the kitchen as I wiped away the tears. I still had the phone in my hand.

  "Who was that?"

  When I told him what I'd done, he smiled. "You're getting there, Haley. I'm proud of you."

  I shrugged. "It looks like you were right-you and Mom and Tyler and Tedd. God's poked a great big hole in my shell."

  It was his turn for tears, quiet, deep-felt ones.

  "I'm not there yet, Dad. But I think I'm on my way."

  His gray eyes, so much like mine that I felt as though I'd looked in a mirror, spoke of love. "Remember, Haley. God will never let you down. 'He who began a good work in ,, you-

  "-will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." I smiled. "I'm counting on him."

  Two wild months later, I had reason to remember that little exchange with Dad. Oh, I'd done my part. I'd continued my sessions with Tedd, and we were well on the way to becoming friends. More and more we turned to Scripture during our sessions.

  I was seeing my faith in a different light.

  And I hadn't missed a chance to listen to my father present the Word of God in church. I'd even begun to enjoy the missionary society meetings-heaven help me.

  But it was at the rescheduled auction of the Gerrity mansion that I really had to call on my new, baby-food faith.

  Ozzie handled the whole thing with grace and his usual skill. I wasn't ready to try out my new chatter yet, certainly not on something as huge as the sale of a landmark.

  So I sat in the audience and noticed Noreen at my side only when her paddle was the last to flash after the price reached Alpine heights.

  "So," the socialite said once Ozzie accepted her final bid, "are you still going to do my new house? I mean, now that you're so busy with the business and don't need the money ... are you still interested?"

  "Yes, Haley." That certain contractor who knew more about my weaknesses than I cared to share butted in. "Are you going to make my life a nightmare with your ideas for furniture placement, froufrous, and paint?"

  I looked at Dutch, then at Noreen. Could I work with them?

  When I'd suspected anyone and everyone of killing Marge, and especially after I'd learned of Noreen's affair with Steve, I'd doubted I could go through with the project. But since then, I'd changed. I wasn't the same woman Marge had recommended.

  Dutch shifted in his chair. I glanced at him, and his green gaze met mine. I blushed, the memory of the night Gussie tried to kill me too vivid to forget.

  He'd driven me crazy, and we'd argued like cats. He was cocky and arrogant, and he had a lousy reputation, but he'd saved my life.

  I sighed, disgusted, but not sure at what.

  Maybe God would grant me an extra measure of grace. He'd helped me with Gussie, and maybe now, with a different kind of help, he'd help me work with Dutch.

  "Yeah." I smiled. "When do we start?"

  Coming in March 2006

  Excerpt from

  Decorating Schemes

  Stripping is not the best way for a woman to earn her living. I mean, really. To start out with, the clothes you have to wear are nothing to write home about, and then look at what it does to your skin. All those caustic chemicals ruin your hands, you know? At least I'm the kind who wouldn't be caught dead at a nail salon; the cost of manicure upkeep would rival the federal deficit.

  As an interior designer-not to mention the new owner, thanks to an inheritance-of a major auction house, I come in contact with more than my share of old pieces that need nips and tweaks, if not complete face-lifts. For that, I have to rely on those nasty stripping compounds. And don't even think about the all-natural or organic kind. They just don't do the job as well or as fast.

  That leads me to the other problem. No matter what kind of gloves I use, they always wind up melted before I complete the fix to the furniture's finish. That's what my newest pair had started to do when the phone rang in the workshop at the warehouse.

  "Norwalk Auctions, Haley Farrell speaking."

  "Hi, Haley." The fudgy voice was more than familiar. Before I could respond to my latest-and first to live through the experience-design client, Noreen Daventry continued. "I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time."

  For my gooey gloves, and the phone, no time would be good. The gloves were done for, and I'd have to douse the receiver with stripper to rid it of the rubbery mess, then hope and pray that kind of plastic wouldn't succumb to the chemical too. But I couldn't tell one of the richest women on the West Coast that I was too busy to talk to her.

  "It's never a bad time for a chat with you, Noreen."

  "That's very kind, Haley." A hint of humor underscored Noreen's voice, a clear reminder that we both knew more about each other than either of us would like.

  "Since," she went on, "you're in such a benevolent mood, this should be a good time to ask you for a favor."

  Groan. "Sure. What do you need?"

  "I don't need anything. But I do have friends whose home is in dire need of your talents."

  Now she was playing my kind of tune. "Really? What's their problem?"

  "Oh, no problem. Just a house that hasn't been touched in the last ... oh, I guess it must be fifteen years now. They're newlyweds, and Dr. Marshall would like to offer his darling new bride the chance to make the house hers."

  "Dr. Marshall ... do you mean
Stewart Marshall, the plastic surgeon?"

  "You know Stew, then."

  "No, but I do read newspapers."

  Noreen chuckled. "Then you already know this job would be very lucrative for you. And I've raved about your work to Deedee-the new Mrs. Marshall. They'd like you to come over as soon as possible-this evening, even-to take a good look at their place and give them your expert opinion. They like what you did with my new home."

  Noreen bought a white-elephant money pit almost a year ago at the first auction I ran after my inheritance cleared probate. I worked like a horse to finish the redesign in time for her to move in this spring. She's been in the home a mere eight weeks now and has already hosted six social-columnworthy bashes.

  "I'm glad." I checked every surface for paper and pen or pencil but found none. Besides, my hands were in no condition to touch anything. "Tell you what. I ... ah ... have a minor mess to clear up here, and then I'll call you back."

  A throaty laugh flowed over the connection. "Hope you're not in trouble with the law again."

  The nerve of the woman! I haven't been in trouble with the law.

  Never.

  Not really.

  They just jumped to judgment a few months back and thought I'd committed a crime that anyone with a shred of brain matter would know I never could have committed. But I had to hold my tongue if I wanted to land the job-not a piece of cake for me.

  "Umm ... er ... no. Nothing like that. I just need to take care of some ah ... paperwork-" paper towels might do the job ... maybe "-to give the Marshalls my complete attention."

  Another chuckle tested my patience, so I sent a quick prayer heavenward.

  "I'll be waiting for your call, then," Noreen said. "Oh, and by the way. You might as well know ahead of time. The Marshalls decided to hire Dutch too."

  This time I couldn't keep the groan to myself.

  Noreen laughed harder. "That's what I thought. I suppose I should warn Deedee that fireworks will be a daily thing when her general contractor and interior designer come faceto-face."

  What could I say? Dutch Merrill and I don't see eye to eye on much. Actually, we don't see eye to eye on anything, as we discovered during the months we were forced to work together on Noreen's remodel.