Authors: Leslie Caine
he afternoon was hectic, to say the least, with my
Tcovering work for both of us, and I found myself
deeply annoyed at myself for having suggested Sullivan
take the day off. The more I reflected on our conversation with Richard, the more skeptical I was about
Richard's claiming not to have known that Burke was in
the contest. I also wondered if Richard had known that
Burke had hired his architect to design his potentially
award-winning house.
Despite being pressed for time, I ran a computer
search in the local online newspaper for any articles
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linking Jeremy Greene and Richard Thayers. To my surprise, a short article had been published six months
ago reporting that Richard had sued Jeremy because of
the "structurally inadequate" design of his foundation. I
found it odd that Richard was holding the architect, not
the builder, accountable for the problem. No subsequent
articles had been published, so perhaps the matter had
still been pending when Richard died.
A fabric-shopping expedition at the end of the day
happened to place me in the vicinity of Jeremy Greene's
architecture studio. If nothing else, I wanted to know if
his being the architect for both Richard's and Burke's
homes had really been a mere coincidence. And from a
purely business standpoint, considering the nature of the
lawsuit, I wanted to know if my client's foundation was
going to collapse.
Jeremy's office was in a boxy redbrick structure in
South Crestview, sadly lacking in architectural interest.
Jeremy had done little to enhance his one-size-fits-all office space or to show off his skills, other than putting his
truly excellent basswood models on display. I wondered
idly if he'd consider hiring Sullivan and Gillbert Designs
to jazz up his space.
He was poring over blueprints at his drawing table
when I arrived. Jeremy was about my age (twenty-nine,
which reminded me that I was due for celebrating my
next birthday in the Bahamas). With his eager grin and
sparkling eyes, he was more cute than handsome--babyfaced with a weak chin and a receding light brown hairline.
He pushed back from his work when I asked if he had
a minute to talk and said convincingly that he appreciated the chance to take a break. I sat down on a wheeled
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swivel chair identical to his own, and silently observed
that the chocolate brown vinyl flooring was the perfect
surface for propelling oneself around the space on these
caster-wheel chairs. This, however, was an acutely inappropriate time to share such inanities, so we somberly exchanged a few words about our sadness and dismay at
Richard's untimely death. I then told Jeremy how I'd only
recently learned that he'd designed both Richard's and
Burke's homes.
He nodded and indulged in a proud smile. "Modesty
aside, those are the two best straw-bale homes in
Colorado. Did Burke tell you that we used much of the
same floor plan?"
"No. He told me he didn't know at first that you were
Richard's designer."
"The name didn't come up for a while, when I was
first showing Burke the design. It never occurred to me
that they'd know each other. Small world."
So it was a coincidence--but then, the world of the
ecologically superfocused in the town of Crestview,
Colorado, truly was small. "I guess it's no wonder that
Richard felt he had to withdraw. He was going to be judging a house which was so close in design to his own."
He shrugged. "Mostly in basic structure . . . rooflines,
floor plans. And they both use straw-bale construction, of
course. But in terms of aesthetics and energy efficiency,
Burke's house had Richard's beat hands down."
"I wonder if that made Richard envious. I mean, that
was the heart and soul of Richard's business . . . green designs and so forth. And yet here's this physician who has
built a house that looks like his, but is another ten or fifteen percent more energy-efficient."
"More like twenty-one percent, actually."
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"Wow."
"But Richard knew that was just the nature of these
things. A lot of breakthroughs have occurred in the last
couple of years. You can't possibly keep up with them."
"So Richard didn't get angry about his house not being as energy-efficient as it might have been?"
Jeremy studied my features for a moment and replied
cautiously, "He didn't complain to me about it."
I feigned nonchalance and asked, "So he only complained about his home's foundation?"
Jeremy's features turned stony, and he stayed silent.
"I read about the lawsuit. Was that ever resolved?"
"Yeah. I mean, I haven't heard anything more about it,
so he probably dropped the suit. Or his lawyer did, based
on lack of evidence."
Nice evasion, I said to myself. "The newspaper reported that he was getting cracks in his basement walls
from an expansive-soil problem. Why did he blame you
and not the builder?" When Jeremy didn't answer me
right away, I pressed, "Surely as a conservationist himself,
Richard wouldn't be objecting to the amount of fly ash in
the concrete, right?" Fly ash was a by-product of coal furnaces that could be mixed into cement instead of being
merely discarded, an excellent practice that I knew
Jeremy always recommended.
"No, Richard knew the problem had nothing to do
with fly ash; it was caused by improper construction. But
the builder shifted the blame onto me, claiming he'd
built the foundation wall according to my exact specs.
Richard believed him, for some reason. And, anyway, all
they needed to do was underpin the support wall. As far
as I know, that's what they did, finally, and then the house
was fine."
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"Jeez. So your design was fine, but the builder
screwed up, you told them how to fix it, but you still got
sued? That must have made you furious!"
He shrugged. "Things like that are the price you pay
for running your own business. Once Sullivan and
Gilbert Designs has been around for six or seven years
like I have, you'll run into lawsuits, too. If you haven't already."
He wasn't telling me the full story. Richard would
have had no cause to sue his architect over a construction
problem that had been easily remedied. I tried in vain to
read his expression. "I guess that's probably true.
Unfortunately."
"Why are you asking about this, Erin? You're not playing amateur sleuth, are you?"
"I'm just watching out for the interests of my client.
Burke Stratton would freak if it turns out his foundation
is crumbling. He's put his heart and soul into that place."
"Yeah. He sure has." Jeremy sounded bitter. He rolled
his chair back into position at his drawing table. "It was
good seeing you, Erin. But I've got to get back to work."
"Thanks for taking the time to talk," I said in a breezy
voice. "Take care."
I left. When the time was right, I was going to have to
discuss my concerns about Jeremy's design with Steve,
and then with Burke. If there was a serious flaw in the design or construction of Burke's home, he would most
likely have to follow in Richard's footsteps and hire a
lawyer.
Furthermore, if Richard had uncovered a major flaw that
was going to topple "the two best straw-bale homes in
Colorado," Jeremy could have been driven to desperate measures--possibly murder--to protect himself. I considered
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calling Linda Delgardio, my friend on the police force. She
never took kindly to my voicing theories regarding police investigations, though.
As I walked back to my car, my heart leapt at the tones
of my cell phone. I hoped it was Sullivan. Instead, a
friend from the Pilates studio I belonged to was organizing a last-minute girls' night out. I hesitated before agreeing to join them. I knew how much pain Sullivan was in,
and although it felt disloyal of me, I needed a dose of fun
and a temporary escape. Sadly, Steve's problems were
still going to be there tomorrow, and by all appearances,
the only thing he wanted from me right now was some
space.
The next morning, Sullivan was in the office when I
arrived a few minutes after eight. He'd already completed
a presentation board for a major remodel we were bidding on next week, and he'd redone the sunroom drawing of mine that he'd crumpled. "You must have gotten
here at six," I said.
"Closer to five. Couldn't sleep."
He was avoiding my gaze. "Since you've already got us
caught up, how 'bout I take you to breakfast?"
"No. I want to just . . . keep working. Stay focused on
the job. Thanks, though."
Did he mean he wanted to concentrate his energies
on work for merely this one morning, or for the foreseeable future? "We'd planned on going to that concert in
Denver tonight. Should we bag it?"
"Yeah. I'm not . . . I just can't right now, Gilbert. I've
got too much on my plate already."
"I understand."
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"Good. Thanks."
"Just don't push me away. I'm on your side."
He ignored me and went on. "By the way, I crossed
paths with the woman who cleans the office. She threw
out the grape I gave you."
"Oh, no! I meant to take that home last night."
He still wouldn't look me directly in the eye. "Was that
drawing okay?" he asked solemnly.
"Which drawing?"
"My alterations to Burke's solarium. I figured when
you said there were iron pieces you wanted to use for
building the bench, you meant the grating we got at the
salvage yard for him last week."
"Yes, that is exactly what I was thinking. It's fine,
Sullivan. Thanks." The drawing he did, especially the inset showing the bench he'd designed, was much better
than fine, actually. But it was difficult to praise someone
who was actively shutting the door in my face.
Fortunately, I was able to get lost in my work that
morning until some ninety minutes later, when a portly
middle-aged man stepped through the door. He was
dressed in low-riding jeans, a flannel shirt, and a denim
jacket. He scanned our posh surroundings as he dried his
construction boots on the mat with the enthusiasm of a
child trying to build up a charge of static electricity. He
gave me an affable grin. "Hello, there." His voice was
halfway to a shout. "Have I got the right place? Is this
Gilbert and Sullivan Designs?"
"Sullivan and Gilbert Designs, actually," Steve
quickly corrected, rising.
"Ah. Come to think of it, there's probably a sign on the
door. Should've read it." He opened the door, craned his
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neck to peer at our nameplate, then shut the door again.
"Which one's Gilbert and which one's Sullivan?"
"I'm Erin Gilbert."
"Steve Sullivan." Steve stepped forward with proffered
hand. "And you are . . . ?"
"Name's Walter Emory," the visitor said, his voice still
booming as he pumped Steve's hand. His name sounded
familiar to me, but I couldn't place it. "Pleased to meet
you. I'll probably be seeing you two quite a bit in the next
week or two."
As he shook my hand, the name clicked. "You're the
original founder of Earth Love, aren't you?" I remarked.
He was also the head of World's Watchdogs, a much
more controversial association, as I recalled.
He beamed at me. "That's right. Here to act as the
new judge for the contest. Earth Love felt it'd be best to
move forward quickly . . . then maybe to set up some sort
of memorial fund in Richard's memory."
Sullivan peered at him. "You're heading up World's
Watchdogs now, right?"
Walter Emory chuckled. "I can tell by the way you're
both looking at me that you've heard the rumors that we
have some dangerous ecoterrorist members. Rest assured, those are just rumors. No basis in fact. I haven't
done anything the Feds consider a crime since I was a
wild teenager." He had an endearing twinkle in his eye.
"Quite a ways back, as you can see." The man had to be
pushing sixty.
Sullivan took a seat in the leather chair facing him,
and I sat down in my usual spot. "Richard was a friend of
mine, too," Sullivan said. "How'd you meet him?"
"He worked as my consultant while I was forming
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Earth Love. We met over the Internet, something like ten
or fifteen years ago. I was still in Juneau at the time."
"I hear it's beautiful up there," I remarked.
"Sure is. My parents were hippies and raised me in
Alaska. A commune, actually." He chuckled. "We never
had a TV. Took me till I was in my late twenties to discover that most folks in the lower forty-eight figured getting a piece of the good life was all that mattered, and
natural resources be damned. Now someone's killed one
of the world's true guardian angels. All I've heard about