"Oh, yes," she chided. "Just last month my car broke
down and he gave me a ride home, way over the speed
limit. A female officer pulled him over." She rolled her
eyes. "You should have seen him pulling out the violins
to play his 'Poor, Poor Me' tune. He was practically sobbing the whole time he was talking to the lady cop. Right
up until she downgraded the ticket to a warning and let
him go. He laughed all the way home." She harrumphed. "The man's absolutely shameless."
c h a p t e r 2 0
he next morning, I couldn't help but notice the
Tdark circles under Sullivan's eyes. He hadn't
shaved, nor had he combed his hair. He was working at
an easel near his desk, putting the finishing touches on
the dining room design for a first-time client.
I stared at the powder blue shirt he wore over his black
T-shirt. He had a smear of lipstick on his collar!
"What?" he said.
I averted my gaze. "Nothing. You look like you tied
one on with Burke last night. That's all."
"Burke?"
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 247
My heart was racing. Had Sullivan come straight to
work from the woman's house? Was there any other explanation? How cliched could this get? "Yeah. I had to
drive him home last night. I bumped into him downtown. He seemed to be drunk."
"What do you mean, seemed to be? You think he
might've been pretending, so he could score a ride
home?"
Unwilling to look again at Sullivan and his telltale collar, I stared at my computer screen. "No, Asia McClure
accused him of faking it. He'd told me he drank too
much because it was the anniversary of his son's death.
But then she claimed he did stuff like that, played the
sympathy card, whenever he got in a jam. She seemed so
sure of herself that I did some computer research last
night and found Caleb Stratton's obit. He died four years
ago yesterday, just like Burke said."
"Why were you talking to Asia last night?"
Who the hell cared!? "Um . . . Burke nodded out for a
while, and when he awoke, he was disoriented and kind
of grabbed the wheel from me. The tires squealed right
by Asia's driveway. She came running out to scold everyone."
"Damn it, Erin!" He tossed his colored pencil into the
tray and shot to his feet. "You deserved a scolding!"
I gaped at him.
"Either Burke's a two-time murderer, or he's being
framed as one! Either way, it's stupid and risky for you to
be alone with him at night!"
"The man was drunk! What was I supposed to do? Let
him drive that way?"
"You should have called him a cab!"
248 L e s l i e C a i n e
"With my car right there? That would have been
ridiculous!"
"It makes a lot more sense than driving a murder suspect around, alone, late at night!"
"He is our client, and I'm certain he's innocent.
Furthermore, if you care so much about me and my personal safety, why don't you show it, instead of yelling at
me all the time! Not to mention having the gall to come
into work with lipstick on your collar!"
His jaw dropped. He tugged at his collar, then mumbled, "Sorry." He yanked off his outer shirt, examined the
collar a second time, and draped the garment over the
back of his chair. "That'll teach me not to let my laundry
go this long." He gave me a sheepish smile, his gaze
barely flickering in my direction, let alone meeting mine.
"I think I ran into a friend the last time I happened to be
wearing this shirt. She must have given me a peck on the
cheek." He eased himself into his chair with the weariness of a long-distance runner who'd just lost his race.
Stunned into silence, I stared at him. He really did
look defeated--and guilty. Much as I wanted to believe
him, I had too good of an eye for color for my own good.
The lipstick was the same copper shade that Hands-on
Fairfax favored.
The silence was palpable. I needed to get out of here.
I stood. "Um . . . that structural engineer Burke hired was
supposed to be there first thing this morning. I want to
drop by and speak to him myself."
Sullivan nodded. "I'll come with you." He paused.
"Notice that I'm not shouting."
drawn to him. That reminder only made me feel all the
more miserable. His suggestion defeated most of the pur-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 249
pose behind my hasty exit, but he was my business partner, and I had to act like a professional. Regardless of
how badly my heart was aching.
A small pickup truck drove out just as we neared
Burke's driveway. Jeremy stood outside, as he had apparently been speaking to its driver. He waited for us as we
rounded the mailbox and parked.
"I take it that was the engineer," Sullivan said to
Jeremy as we emerged from the van. "Did he already give
Burke a preliminary report?"
"No, he collected the data and told Burke he'll get
back to him first thing Monday. He and I spoke at length
just now, though. I said I'd relay the gist to Burke myself."
Jeremy rubbed his face, which was pale and drawn. He'd
shaved his scraggly beard and was wearing off-white
Dockers, which matched the color of his wan face. "You
two might as well listen in. That way you can all have a
piece of me at once."
Sullivan and I exchanged glances as Jeremy trudged
ahead of us. All that remained to be seen was how badly
Burke was going to handle the engineer's dire prognosis
for this house. I already grieved for all our wasted work.
We had managed to wring every last cubic inch of visual
interest, cozy warmth, and sparkling appeal out of what
had started out as a ponderous, drab, and boxlike space.
"Burke?" Jeremy called as he ushered us inside. A moment later, Burke appeared at the doorway to the
kitchen. "Gilbert and Sullivan stopped by. I offered to
have them join us as I fill you in. That all right with you?"
"Uh . . . yeah. Sure. I was just making myself some
coffee. Anyone else want some?" He was dressed in a
250 L e s l i e C a i n e
sweatshirt and jeans, his eyes bloodshot. He certainly
looked like someone with a hangover.
We all declined. He poured his cup and then headed
to his kitchen table. We'd all taken so much pride in describing to visitors how we'd commissioned the Crestview
Lumberyard to make the boards for this circular table
from the lodgepole pine that had once stood in this very
spot. Jeremy remained standing, but the moment the
three of us were seated, he said, "Okay, Burke. 'Fraid I
got some real bad news."
"Ah, jeez." Burke shoved his cup to the center of the
table, then balled his fists. "Go on."
"As you started to suspect a few months ago, the foundation just wasn't built right. Or at least it wasn't for the
movement in the underlying soil. Your house is kind of
like the tower of Pisa . . . starting to lean."
"Damn it, Jeremy! How did the inspectors fail to notice that the foundation was this
bad?"
"You're right. The structural inspection should have
caught it. But it looked fine. It was just . . . bad luck."
"No, it was bad design work on your part," Burke
growled. He slammed his fist on the table. His full coffee
cup sloshed with the vibrations.
I hoped this lovely little table wasn't going to get
wrecked. I signaled Sullivan with my eyes, and he
reached behind him and grabbed a cloth napkin from
the built-in sideboard.
"You said you'd take care of the soil inspection for
me," Burke continued, "and you obviously didn't. So you
now owe me a million dollars."
"A million dollars?!"
Steve grabbed Burke's cup in anticipation of future
table poundings.
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 251
"That's just for starters. Make it two, come to think of
it. You deserve to pay an additional million for punitive
damages. But the good news is, for two mil, you can have
this place, lock, stock, and barrel. She's all yours."
"There's no reason to overreact," Jeremy said meekly.
"Oh, no? You wouldn't call the fact that my house is
toppling over a reason to get upset?"
"It will be years before you can even tell there's a problem." Jeremy forced a smile, but dots of perspiration were
forming on his brow.
"You mean, not counting the cracks and seepage in
the walls of my basement?"
"Yes, the basement doesn't look great. But it's just a basement. You're living here alone, and not even really using
it for anything. Except for your pool table. We'll move it
upstairs. Into your den. It'll be nicer there anyway."
Now that was beyond stupid. We'd maximized every
inch of the den to keep that small space from becoming
cavelike. We'd designed the built-in shelves for the specific sizes of his medical journals, textbooks, and chess
trophies. It was Burke's favorite room.
"Oh, will it?" Burke pounded the table once again.
"And will we build levelers into the table legs? So that as
the house leans, we can keep jacking up one side?"
Jeremy waited patiently through Burke's sarcastic remarks. "The engineer says we can shore up the supports
on the case-ons," Jeremy pleaded, "and we'll build a retaining wall. With any luck whatsoever, your house here
will last as long as forty years, with no additional damage.
That's really not all that bad, when you think about it."
Burke turned his desperate eyes to Sullivan and me
252 L e s l i e C a i n e
and asked, "If I put this place on the market tomorrow, do
you think I could break even?"
Sullivan frowned and shook his head. "You'd be obligated to report the problem to prospective buyers."
Burke grabbed his head with both hands and said
nothing. Finally he sat up. "Well, Jeremy. Thanks for
telling me. You'll be looking forward to hearing from my
lawyer, I'm sure."
"I . . . guess I'd better go."
Although Sullivan slid the coffee cup back over to
him, Burke stayed seated in stunned silence for several
seconds after Jeremy had closed the front door behind
him.
"I'm really sorry about all of this, Burke," I said.
He shrugged. "Must be my karma. Or maybe I really
screwed some people over in a past life. And now I just
can't catch a break." He shook his head. "At least Asia
will be happy now."
"How so?" Sullivan asked.
"There's no reason for me to finish installing the windmill. The house won't even be standing by the time it
pays for itself."
That afternoon, Matthew Hayes phoned while Sullivan
was engaged in an "emergency meeting" with Jennifer
Fairfax. The desk was finished. I arranged to come in
and pay for it now, so he could deliver it tomorrow--
Saturday morning. It worried me a little that Burke might
want to refuse delivery, considering the fiasco with his
house.
A much bigger worry, though, was that Sullivan and I
had argued about his sudden appointment with Ms.
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 253
Fairfax. I'd very reasonably pointed out that if something
had gone so wrong with her home that he had deemed
this appointment an emergency, we should both attend.
He had unreasonably countered that he needed to handle this alone. Fed up, I asked, "Why? Are you two having
a fling?" And as he stormed out the door, he had yelled,
"Erin, please! I've got enough troubles on my mind without you acting jealous!"
When I arrived at Matthew's store, the strung-out sales
clerk was talking in agitated tones on his cell phone. He
did a double take at me as I approached, then said,
"Here's someone," into his phone, flipped his phone
shut, and headed toward me.
Unable to imagine an enjoyable outcome after that
greeting, I took a tiny step back.
"You were here before," he said to me. "Listen, dude, I
gotta split. When Matthew gets back, tell him I had an
emergency."
"But, wait! Where's Matthew?"
"He'll be right back," he answered over his shoulder.
He charged through the door.
"Okay, then," I murmured to myself. Well, I could
wait five minutes for Matthew. At which time I would be
sure to get his employee's name to nominate him for a
good-service award.
The phone behind the counter rang. I took a moment
to consider what I'd want a customer to do if this was my
store, but decided to answer it anyway, in case Matthew
was calling. "M.H. Custom Furniture," I said cautiously.
"Yeah," a man said. "How late are you open?"
"Six P.M." I answered, reasonably certain that was accurate. I tensed. A large and extremely scruffy-looking man
had chosen that moment to enter the store. I wondered if
254 L e s l i e C a i n e
this was who the flake had been talking to on his cell
phone before bolting. Maybe he was here to rob the place.
"Okay. Thanks," the caller said.
"You're welcome," I replied, briefly toying with the notion of asking him to send the police. This was one scarylooking customer/robber. He was at least six feet seven
and three hundred pounds, wearing grubby gray sweats,
and unshaven except for his lumpy scalp. He'd have
looked equally fitting in an Oakland Raiders uniform or
prison garb. I hung up.
"Hey. Is your boss here?" His voice was deep enough
to make the floorboards rumble.
"Matthew stepped out. But he'll be back any second.
Literally." I chewed on my lip. Should I tell him that I
didn't work here and didn't know how to work the cash
register? As far as I was concerned, he was welcome to
take the whole thing with him.
"Just want to know where I can unload the copper."
He gave me a wink.
My sense of relief at his wink was enormous. It meant
that the man wasn't a robber. Well, actually, it meant that
he'd probably stolen the copper, but wasn't here to rob
me. I was never again going to have such a golden opportunity to check into Matthew's b
usiness ethics. I found
myself able to grin as the large man held my gaze. "Is this
the kind of shipment that fell off a truck, by any chance?"
He laughed. "You got it, lady."
"The loading dock is right around back."
"Can I get around the building on the left side, or the
right?"
Beats me was not going to be a good answer. Whereas
getting myself outside where I could hightail it to my car
would be advantageous. "I'll come out and show you."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 255
"Suit yourself."
He led the way outside, not bothering to slow the door
from swinging back at me. With my chances no worse
than fifty-fifty, I indicated with my chin that we should go
to the left. "So, where did you get this copper . . . really?"
He eyed me. "Where do ya think?"
"I've heard about people stripping copper out of
houses that have been foreclosed . . . ripping out the copper pipes and even the electrical wires."
He chuckled. "Good guess. You're not as naive as you
look."
I silently wondered if I should consider that a compliment.
"But, for the record, Matthew and I work on a strictly
no-ask-no-tell basis. For all our dealings."
"Are you the one who gets him the ivory for his inlays?"
"Could be." He looked at the concrete dock. Luckily,
I'd chosen the right path for him to drive down; the other
side was barricaded. "I'll go move my truck. You can unlock the back door."
"I don't actually have access to Matthew's keys. But
he's probably returned to the store by now. My name's
Erin Smith," I lied. "What's yours?"
He narrowed his eyes. "That's one of those no-ask-notell business dealings I was explaining a moment ago."
He held out his hand. "That'll be nine hundred. Cash
only."
"Erin!" Matthew's voice boomed at me. He was
marching toward us, his gaze smoldering. "What the hell
are you doing?"
That was an excellent question. Moments ago I'd been
so frightened that I was willing to hand over a cash register,
256 L e s l i e C a i n e
and now I was standing behind a building with this shady
character! What kind of a moron was I?! "Here's the man
with the money, right here," I said, gesturing toward
Matthew.
"What are you doing back here?!" Matthew asked me
again.
"Showing your supplier where to unload your materials."
Matthew clenched his jaw and shot us both a furious