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Also by Leslie Caine
Death by Inferior Design
False Premises
Manor of Death
Killed by Clutter
Fatal Feng Shui
a domestic
bliss myster y
POISONED
BY
GILT
Leslie Caine
A D E L L B O O K
p o i s o n e d b y g i lt
A Dell Book / July 2008
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright (c) 2008 by Leslie Caine
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon
is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33785-0
www.bantamdell.com
v1.0
Dedicated with love to Francine Mathews,
who has been an invaluable resource to me in
my writing and an even more invaluable friend
POISONED
BY
GILT
c h a p t e r 1
steve Sullivan's handsome face grew pale upon answering our office phone. I had no clue who was
calling, and he seemed to be deliberately avoiding my
gaze. I tried to distract myself by focusing my attention on
the cozy sitting area we'd created on the far side of our
long, rectangular office. The fabric on our luxurious new
sofa--Thai silk jacquard in a bronze-gold tone, scattered
with the pale outline of rust-colored leaves--beautifully
complemented the luscious red-brown hues of the
exposed-brick wall behind it.
But as the seconds dragged by and Sullivan remained
2 L e s l i e C a i n e
on the phone, my imagination ran wild. Was the landlord of this building suddenly giving Sullivan and Gilbert
Designs the boot? Had a loved one died? Was the IRS going to audit us?
In any case, the phone call had come at a particularly
bad time. I'd just worked up the nerve to tell Sullivan
something excruciatingly difficult. Now, based on his reaction to the news on the other end of the line, I braced
myself for news of a different sort.
He raked his hand through his light brown hair--yet
another bad sign--and finally said, "Sure, Richard. We'll
be here for at least the next half hour. See you then." He
hung up and rose from his red leather office chair. His
brow was furrowed, and he clenched his jaw tightly as he
strode over to the Palladian-style window.
"Was that Richard Thayers calling about the Earth
Love contest?"
"Yeah. Bad news."
"But . . . his appointment as contest judge wasn't even
official until yesterday. Did he already decide that
Burke's house didn't win?"
"It's worse than that." Steve stuffed his hands into the
pockets of his black jeans. "Richard is withdrawing as
judge for 'personal reasons.' He's also citing our client for
possible rule violations. They're going to have to launch a
full investigation. Might even turn the whole thing over
to the police."
"What!? That's ridiculous! You and I have been to
Burke's house fifty times since we first got the rule book
from Earth Love! We went over everything with him with
a fine-toothed comb. His house sailed through all the
judging for the previous rounds. How could he possibly
have cheated?"
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 3
Sullivan remained silent and turned his back to me. I
couldn't begin to guess what he was thinking, which was
unusual. In the past two years, we'd gone from bitter rivals to business partners. Along the way, we'd endured
more than our fair share of trauma, which has a way of revealing a person's true nature very quickly. Fortunately,
the first six months in the life of our new business had
been relatively smooth--not silk, maybe, but top-grade
linen. Our personal relationship, on the other hand, was,
as ever, about as smooth as jagged glass. We were constantly plagued by bad timing and bad luck. Steve's last
two phone conversations with his "mentor," Richard
Thayers, were the perfect example. I'd yet to even meet
the former teacher whom Sullivan so greatly admired.
But last night, Richard's call to Sullivan's cell phone had
interrupted my hopes for the perfect ending to what, until then, had finally, finally been Steve Sullivan's and my
perfect date. And now, the phone had rung just as I'd
worked up the courage to suggest to Sullivan that maybe
tonight we should pick up where we'd left off the night
before.
Sullivan continued to stare out the window, fixated on
its majestic view of the Rockies. I decided to scrap my
heartfelt but memorized speech. Time for Plan B, which
was to turn brazen hussy--cute brazen hussy, I hoped--
and simply blurt out: "So, Sullivan. My bed or yours
tonight?"
"So, Sullivan. Are we being investigated, too, or
what?" (Somewhere a chicken was squawking, just for
me.)
"Sure hope not," he mumbled in the window's direction.
I struggled to string together the meager clues that
4 L e s l i e C a i n e
Sullivan had given me to this point. The Earth Love contest for energy-efficient homes meant much more to
Sullivan than it did to me. He was acting as if this award
would be his crowning professional achievement,
whereas I felt that the contest's lucrative cash prize went
to the homeowner, not the interior designer, for good
reason. But the finalist judge, Richard Thayers, had been
Steve Sullivan's favorite professor at the Art Institute of
Colorado, which he'd attended a dozen years ago.
Sullivan claimed that Thayers taught him everything he
knew, and he was both anxious and ecstatic at the
thought that Thayers might choose our design from the
three finalists for "Best Green Home in Crestview,
Colorado."
Still trying to pry some answers out of Sullivan, I
asked, "By 'stepping down for personal reasons,' does
Richard mean the fact that he's your mentor? Didn't he
tell you earlier that the contest sponsors were fine with
that?"
"Look, Gilbert." He turned and glowered at me.
"You'll have to grill him, all right? I already told you what
little I know."
My heart sank. Wasn't it only last night that his
dreamy hazel eyes were staring into mine with loving
tenderness? He could never keep things in perspective,
and minor problems often turned us into adversaries. But
&nbs
p; all I said was: "You're obviously only giving me part of
Richard's message, though. What exactly did he say?"
"I wasn't recording him, Gilbert."
"That's a pity, Sullivan," I snapped. "Because if you
had been using a tape recorder, you could hit the rewind
button. Clear back to our date last night. When you were
calling me 'Erin' as if you liked me."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 5
"You're the one who made the rule that we were to
stick with 'Gilbert' and 'Sullivan' when we're at work!"
"I'm objecting to your tone of voice when you say my
name! Call me . . . Princess Dagweeb, for all I care! Last
night, when you took my hand and asked me if I minded
if we skip dessert, I thought . . ." Damn! My throat was
getting tight with emotion. No way was I going to start
crying.
"That is what I meant," he said gently. He crossed the
room, but stopped short of rounding my desk. "And, believe me, I was sure it was going to be a two-second
phone conversation when Richard interrupted us last
night, or I'd have let it keep ringing. But he was acting
weird. The first thing he said was: 'Why the hell didn't
you tell me Burke Stratton was your damned client?'
Then he accused me of teaming up against him with his
'worst enemy.' "
That caught my attention. "Why would he have a
problem with Burke?"
"That's just it." He spread his arms and grumbled, "I
still don't know. Richard wouldn't tell me. Just claims the
guy wrecked his life . . . says if I'm smart, I'll stay the hell
away from Burke before he finds a way to wipe out
Sullivan and Gilbert Designs."
I nodded, starting to understand. The thought of having his life ruined in a business arrangement would have
been a painful deja vu for Sullivan; a few years ago he'd
been conned by a corrupt business partner and had lost
nearly everything he owned.
"Having Richard freak out at me was the very last
thing I wanted to happen last night," he continued. "By
the time he calmed down and I got off the phone, it was
too late for me to call Burke and get the story from him."
6 L e s l i e C a i n e
He scowled at me. "And you were acting so crushed that
I didn't know--"
"You left the table, Sullivan! One second you're holding my hand, smiling at me, happy because your longlost friend, Richard Thayers, is on the phone, and the
next you're striding out the door!"
"One of the men I admire most was yelling in my ear,
accusing me of betraying him!"
"I didn't know that! All you had to do was whisper to
me, 'Something's wrong,' or 'He's upset.' Or you could
have explained when you returned to the table. Instead,
you were distracted and abrupt, and you completely gave
me the brush-off when I asked what Richard had said."
"Yeah." Sullivan sighed and ran his fingers through his
hair a second time. "Guess that wasn't one of my better
moments." He added with a charming smile, "Although,
again, you made the rule about not talking business after
hours."
"Again, I couldn't read your mind," I explained gently.
"All I knew was, you chose to take a phone call during
our date, and then you were in a funk. Put yourself in my
shoes."
He gave me an exaggerated wince. "I would, but high
heels make my calves look too big."
"Don't try to joke your way out of this," I said, though
I was already having a hard time keeping a straight face.
"Erin." The man had a gift for saying my name in a
way that could instantly make me melt. He finally came
around my desk and leaned toward me, filling me with
relief at the thought that, for once, we were going to avert
a potentially disastrous argument. "I promise you that--"
The door burst open. In walked a man in smudgy gray
pants and a ratty forest green sweater that I'm pretty sure
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 7
was on backwards. He had a sizable bald spot amidst his
wild, unkempt hair, and a large red nose that hinted at a
drinking problem. But at that moment, he could have
been Santa Claus himself and I still would have hated
him, as well as each and every one of his reindeer. To
make matters much worse, Steve's eyes had just lit up as
though the man were Santa.
"Good to see you, Richard," Sullivan said, striding
toward him.
"Likewise, S.S.," he returned, giving him a bear hug.
"Ridiculous that we live in the same town now," he said
in a raspy voice, "yet we hardly ever see each other. And I
feel terrible about the circumstances."
"No kidding." There was an awkward pause, then
Sullivan said, "You got here pretty quick."
"I was just around the corner when we hung up, and I
found a space right away. Before I forget . . . did you get
my e-mail about my night class?"
"Tonight at CU, right? Okay if I drop in?"
"Absolutely. That's a great idea! It's in room one-ten of
the history building. We can go hit a pub afterwards . . .
grab a sandwich and a brewski."
"Sounds good."
Richard and Sullivan continued to make arrangements, but all I could think was: So much for our picking
up where we left off last night. How had the two men gone
from face-paling angst and accusations of betrayal to
chatting about night classes and beers?
Remembering belatedly that I was still in the room,
Steve clapped his mentor on the back and turned toward
me. "Richard Thayers, this is Erin Gilbert. Erin, Richard."
I rose for a moment, and we exchanged "Nice to meet
you's" and shook hands over my desk. I hoped that his
8 L e s l i e C a i n e
pleasantry was less insincere than mine. I hadn't set the
bar especially high.
"Have a seat," Sullivan suggested, giving Richard a pat
on the back. The three of us moved from our desks to the
cozy nook near the window. We always allowed our visitors to sit first, and then, if it was available, Sullivan would
grab the leather smoking chair and I would grab the yellow slipper chair. Today I strode directly to Sullivan's
smoking chair and plopped myself down before our guest
could. I hated to act so petulant, but it was the best I
could do. At least I was keeping my mouth shut. Part of
me wanted to scream at Thayers: Do you realize you're
wrecking my love life?!
Sullivan took my usual seat. Once Richard had settled
into place on the sofa, I said, "Steve tells me that you're
stepping down as Earth Love's finalist judge."
He nodded grimly. "It's the responsible thing to do."
He sighed. "Too bad. I read the reports from the initialrounds' judges and saw the photographs. Burke Stratton's
interior was by far the best. Not surprisingly." He winked
at Sullivan.
"Thanks," Sullivan said. "Got to say that I agree with
you. Though I'm far from impartial. But I also have to admit, Darren Campesio's architectural design is interesting and really energy-efficient."
"That's the one
that's partially built into the hillside,
right? So that the place is part cave? A la Batman?"
He was mocking the house, sight unseen. Annoyed, I
chimed in, "The design compensates for the windowless
portion fairly well. The space makes great use of skylights
and mirrors."
Richard looked at me with wide eyes, then blinked a
couple of times, as if puzzled. "Ah. Glad to hear it."
P o i s o n e d b y G i l t 9
"And the interior for the third finalist has a lot to be
said for it, too," I added.
"She means Margot Troy's place," Sullivan explained
unnecessarily--assuming Richard could subtract two
from three. "But Erin's biased. She designed Margot's
kitchen a couple years back."
"Did she?" Richard asked, again raising his bushy eyebrows. "Too bad you guys didn't just stick to working on
Margot's house." He shook his head. "When I agreed to
judge, I didn't know Burke Stratton was even in the competition, let alone a finalist."
Sullivan was nodding as though he was following
Richard's thread, but I remained on the outskirts. "And
you're biased against Burke, so you recused yourself?" I
prompted.
Richard nodded and, in a gesture eerily reminiscent of
Sullivan's, dragged a hand through his messy, patchy
hair. "The two of us have a problematic relationship. I
can't begin to be impartial toward that pompous peacock." Shifting his gaze to Sullivan, he said, "If I were
you, I'd disassociate with Stratton A.S.A.P."
"Because you think he cheated somehow?" I asked.
"Oh, he most definitely cheated," Richard said with a
snort. "There's no doubt about that."
"How so?"
"Evidence, my dear. Evidence." He chuckled. I battled the urge to fire off a sarcastic reply. Before I could
ask: What evidence? he continued, "Sorry to be so vague.
But when word of what Burke is really up to gets out, no
one will want to have their names associated with him or
his residence."
Sullivan and I exchanged glances. Why was Richard
paying us a personal visit if he wasn't going to pass along
10 L e s l i e C a i n e
any helpful information? And why was Sullivan now giving me the evil eye if he'd just told me that I would have
to "grill Richard" myself? "I'm sorry, Richard," I said,
"but I'm confused. You didn't know till last night Burke
was in the contest. His house passed the inspections for
the previous rounds with flying colors. Yet this afternoon,