would be you. And just after the ding-dong at the door, the housekeeper finds a dead woman upstairs. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
“No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no !”
“Ahem.”
“Tedd!” Had I ever been happier to see someone? Well, maybe Dad when he bailed me out of jail after Dutch and Lila worked so hard to put me there—unjustly, I might add. But still. “Would you tell this bozo I had nothing to do with Darlene’s death?”
“She had nothing to do with Darlene Weikert’s death— the woman had liver cancer.” She pointed an index finger at each of us. “And you two kiddies need to call a truce. My office! There’s a lot to do, and it won’t get done while you two squabble. I have missing chairs, unmade curtains, floors that need fixing.”
“Cancer?” Dutch asked, ignoring most of what Tedd said, while zooming in on the one word.
My smile reeked of smug. “You didn’t read to the end, did you?”
“But there’s all that money, the nurse, the sons— you !
” “Sorry, Dutch. You can’t get rid of me that easy. Get over it. If anyone did something to Darlene, I don’t know about it. And I wasn’t part of it.”
He crossed his arms. “Then I don’t have to worry that the interior designer on the job will skip out and take off on another snooping gig.”
“Ah . . . no! No, no. Of course not.” Did the guy read minds and nightmares by long distance? “Why would you think I’d do such a thing?”
“Because I know you. Your pal Bella and her PI license have nothing on you.”
“Haley! Dutch!” Tedd’s cheekbones matched the earthy rose timeworn adobe glaze I’d put on her walls. “Time out. My office needs you. You can get back to the merits of Haley’s investigative skills later on.”
“Or not.” With utmost dignity I opened my portfolio and turned to the floor guy. “Mr. Watanabe, here’s a sample of the wood from the chairs I ordered for the waiting room. As you can see, they’re nearly black, and while I don’t want to wind up with matchy-matchy woods, I do want to coordinate tones . . .”
Once I got the meeting back on track, it took us no more than fifteen minutes to come to an agreement. For the distressed wide-plank floors, we chose a medium stain that would let the unique chairs shine on their own. Dutch’s only objection rose when I insisted on distressed floors—his crew would have to stomp on, hammer, and beat with old chains the fresh boards when they arrived.
“I oppose defacing fine wood on principle,” he muttered after Mr. Watanabe left.
I zipped my portfolio. “So oppose it on another job. You’ll get it once everything’s done. Remember, I’m trying to create a look here.”
He tossed the keys to his decrepit old truck in the air. “So long as you stick to creating a look here rather than looking to create something out there”—he pointed at the paper—“then I guess I’ll find a way to be okay with it.”
“Suck it up, Dutch.” I slung the strap of the leather portfolio over my shoulder. “Darlene had cancer. She asked me to restore her parlor and dining room. That’s why I was there. She died of cancer before I had the chance to do the work.”
I held my breath. I hadn’t lied. Would he buy my reassurance?
“All I know,” he said, “is that I have this job to finish and another I’ve just signed on. You’re a flake—a talented flake—”
“I am not a flake!”
“A talented flake, but still a flake. And I have to keep my mind on business. I have a lot of ground to recover after the setbacks I suffered these last few years. I don’t need the designer on this job, her nutty PI neighbor, and the nutty neighbor’s cats to wind up in jail for harassing an innocent family in mourning.”
“How about you audition for the Looney Tunes show?” I opened the door and stepped outside. He followed, so I added, “I haven’t even seen Bella in days.”
“But you will. Probably the minute she reads the
“No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no !”
“Ahem.”
“Tedd!” Had I ever been happier to see someone? Well, maybe Dad when he bailed me out of jail after Dutch and Lila worked so hard to put me there—unjustly, I might add. But still. “Would you tell this bozo I had nothing to do with Darlene’s death?”
“She had nothing to do with Darlene Weikert’s death— the woman had liver cancer.” She pointed an index finger at each of us. “And you two kiddies need to call a truce. My office! There’s a lot to do, and it won’t get done while you two squabble. I have missing chairs, unmade curtains, floors that need fixing.”
“Cancer?” Dutch asked, ignoring most of what Tedd said, while zooming in on the one word.
My smile reeked of smug. “You didn’t read to the end, did you?”
“But there’s all that money, the nurse, the sons— you !
” “Sorry, Dutch. You can’t get rid of me that easy. Get over it. If anyone did something to Darlene, I don’t know about it. And I wasn’t part of it.”
He crossed his arms. “Then I don’t have to worry that the interior designer on the job will skip out and take off on another snooping gig.”
“Ah . . . no! No, no. Of course not.” Did the guy read minds and nightmares by long distance? “Why would you think I’d do such a thing?”
“Because I know you. Your pal Bella and her PI license have nothing on you.”
“Haley! Dutch!” Tedd’s cheekbones matched the earthy rose timeworn adobe glaze I’d put on her walls. “Time out. My office needs you. You can get back to the merits of Haley’s investigative skills later on.”
“Or not.” With utmost dignity I opened my portfolio and turned to the floor guy. “Mr. Watanabe, here’s a sample of the wood from the chairs I ordered for the waiting room. As you can see, they’re nearly black, and while I don’t want to wind up with matchy-matchy woods, I do want to coordinate tones . . .”
Once I got the meeting back on track, it took us no more than fifteen minutes to come to an agreement. For the distressed wide-plank floors, we chose a medium stain that would let the unique chairs shine on their own. Dutch’s only objection rose when I insisted on distressed floors—his crew would have to stomp on, hammer, and beat with old chains the fresh boards when they arrived.
“I oppose defacing fine wood on principle,” he muttered after Mr. Watanabe left.
I zipped my portfolio. “So oppose it on another job. You’ll get it once everything’s done. Remember, I’m trying to create a look here.”
He tossed the keys to his decrepit old truck in the air. “So long as you stick to creating a look here rather than looking to create something out there”—he pointed at the paper—“then I guess I’ll find a way to be okay with it.”
“Suck it up, Dutch.” I slung the strap of the leather portfolio over my shoulder. “Darlene had cancer. She asked me to restore her parlor and dining room. That’s why I was there. She died of cancer before I had the chance to do the work.”
I held my breath. I hadn’t lied. Would he buy my reassurance?
“All I know,” he said, “is that I have this job to finish and another I’ve just signed on. You’re a flake—a talented flake—”
“I am not a flake!”
“A talented flake, but still a flake. And I have to keep my mind on business. I have a lot of ground to recover after the setbacks I suffered these last few years. I don’t need the designer on this job, her nutty PI neighbor, and the nutty neighbor’s cats to wind up in jail for harassing an innocent family in mourning.”
“How about you audition for the Looney Tunes show?” I opened the door and stepped outside. He followed, so I added, “I haven’t even seen Bella in days.”
“But you will. Probably the minute she reads the
Similar Books
