Design For A Crime (eBook)

A Pushkin Mystery

D.A. Gaslin (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
312 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-7655-9 (ISBN)

Infos

It's 1998. The turn of the millennia is near. Interior Designer Lois Pushkin's sole goal in life is to make it in the unforgiving, competitive design climate of Los Angeles, California. When the perfect job suddenly drops into her lap, Lois is finally off and running to make a name for herself with the celebrity jet set. Everything is coming together - work, love, and money - until it all comes to a screeching halt when her best paying, most famous client dies. The LAPD labels it a suicide, but then Lois becomes a Person of Interest.

D.A. Gaslin lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family and cats. She has been an interior designer for over 25 years, and fell in love with Los Angeles after living there for a few years. Her experiences with design and LA inspired her to write the 'Pushkin Mystery' series.

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It's 1998. The turn of the millennia is near. Interior Designer Lois Pushkin's sole goal in life is to make it in the unforgiving, competitive design climate of Los Angeles, California and prove her mother wrong. Escaping the Pacific Northwest for a sunnier climate, Lois begins to work her way up in one of the best architecture firms in the city. When her aunt dies, Lois inherits an apartment building and thinks she's cashed in on her golden goose. After quitting her job, Lois starts her own firm in a trendy, expensive location believing the apartments are going to pay her way. Then, her crazy aunt's other shoe drops and Lois is instantly cash poor and asset rich. With no big money clients, her new design firm is a breath away from all falling apart. After the perfect job drops into her lap, Lois is finally off and running to make a name for herself with the celebrity jet set. Everything is coming together - work, love, money - until it all comes to a screeching halt when her best paying, most famous client dies. The LAPD labels the death as a suicide, until Lois becomes a Person of Interest and the shoes really start dropping.

Textauszug

Chapter 6

I drove up to the gates of the address I’d been given on Mulholland Drive. They were huge gates, made of iron and steel, with rivets the size of Oreos. They were also very high—twelve feet, I’d say, with spikes every eight inches on center across the top. Somebody definitely wanted to keep the world at bay. The ominous ironwork was still an art piece, though: two great lion heads with big, wide eyes hung off center panels. Wait. Did those eyes just move? I rolled down my window and stared intently into them.

“Ms. Pushkin?” came a male voice.

“Fuck,” I yelled. The voice had come from out of nowhere. No, more precisely, out of the lion’s head, twelve inches from my face. “Err, um, sorry about that. You startled me. I usually don’t yell and I usually don’t swear. Yes, this is Lois Pushkin.” Fucking great, you loser, Lois. Nice first impression.

There was a long pause. No doubt some assistant’s, assistant’s, assistant was laughing so hard he’d peed his pants already, “Please park your car in the turn-around and go directly to the main entry.” The gates buzzed and languidly swung open in all of their grandeur like the gaping jaws of Pinocchio’s whale. I drove my sleek, silver Subaru wagon through and down the white pebbled expanse to the home. It loomed up as I drove toward the car park.

Honestly, I liked the house. It wasn’t offensive to me like I thought it would be when I checked it out via the old real estate listing. That was a good thing. I couldn’t work in crap. Snob bish in my current condition I’m aware. The mansion was a bright, white stucco in the Moorish style with not too much ironwork. They must have used that all up with the security fencing. Ironwork always killed Moorish architecture if it was laid on too thick. What appealed to me most were all of the flowers. God, how I loved flowers. Another perk to living in this city—flowers in bloom 365 days a year. I stuck my head out the window and breathed them all in. I caught the scent of my favorite and looked around for the shrub. It was daphne, and a bank of it flanked a path shooting off to my left. My vision was obscured by birch tree branches, but the path seemed to go on for a ways. I parked my car, got out, and headed toward the path, intoxicated by the plant’s perfume. As I was leaning over, breathing in the wonderful aroma, I heard someone clear their throat at my head. I quickly stood up and was faced by a butler in full regalia.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but this area is off-limits to you. You were to come directly to the main entrance,” explained the butler, stiffly showing me the correct path to the front door.

“Oh, I’m sorry. The daphne smelled so good and they’re my favorite. I just had to come over and smell them. I . . . I wasn’t going to go anywhere,” I stammered.

“This way, please,” reinforced the butler.”

“Wait, I’m sorry. Please wait. I have to get my portfolio out of the car. Hold . . . hold on a sec,” I said, as I rushed over to my car and quickly gathered my valise. The butler waited until I was ready, and then we entered the house together. The front doors looked so old. I wondered what bankrupt Scottish castle Faraday had seized them from. In fact, I started to wonder who had done his entire house. Crap, I forgot to call Jasmine.

The butler led me down a long hall and offered me a seat in a foyer in front of a pair of double doors. I sat and waited. Presently, the doors opened, and a tall, spry man with wispy, receding hair and frameless glasses came out.

“Ms. Pushkin?”

“Yes,” I answered, rising from my seat.

“I’m Trevor Gerard, Bruce Hansen’s assistant. Come with me,” he ordered. I followed him through the double doors into another foyer half the size of the previous one. Trevor offered me yet another seat and told me to wait. He went through another pair of double doors at the end of the room. It was then silent, very silent, except for a low buzzing sound. Was it some early form of tinnitus? I looked around absentmindedly. Then my eye caught something moving and I turned my head fully to inspect it. High in the ceiling, above the crown molding, was a tiny surveillance camera. I waved and smiled. At that moment, the double doors opened, and another tall, thin man with wispy, receding hair and frameless glasses appeared. I did a double take, but, yes, it was a different man.

He introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Bruce Hansen, Mr. Faraday’s personal assistant.”

Figures, I thought. “Lois Pushkin.”

“Yes, yes, if you’ll come with me,” invited Bruce, leading me through the second set of double doors. I followed, only to be led into some sort of antechamber. It had plush lounge furniture, a real log-burning fireplace, and real gas candelabras equally spaced all around the room in ornate raised panels on the walls. Bruce motioned for me to sit down again. “Please wait while I tell Mr. Faraday that you are here,” said Bruce, and he disappeared through a pseudo-concealed panel in the wall.

Well, I’m sure Faraday already knows I’m here. I felt as though I were at Wuthering Heights, waiting for Heathcliff, except the weather was far too nice to be any place on the moors. As I sat, gazing out the beautiful, leaded casement windows, I heard a click and another buzz. Turning around, I found Bruce once again standing before me.

“Mr. Faraday will see you now,” he announced. I got up and was once more led through what was a last set of double doors into an expansive executive office that was fit for a king. In front of the chair I was directed to sit in was the most beautiful Amazon blackheart and English fingered sycamore desk that I had ever seen. The inlay and the carving on the piece were extraordinary, the details infinite. It was either very, very old and a cherished family antique or recently custom made if Faraday had no regard for the environment. I’m sure I could find a picture of it in my old furniture history books from college.

The walls were upholstered in purple and olive crushed linen velvet, tufted with big oil- rubbed bronze studs, similar to the rivets of the security gates. There were floor-to-ceiling French-lite windows draped in layers of the most luscious Chinese silk in coordinating shades of purple, olive, and gold. All the traditional colors of royalty.

Looking around, I saw that the chair I sat in and its mate were from the Empire period. There was a side table with matching sideboard in a Roman style with swan balustrades. Quite truly a room fit for a king. Or maybe more like Napoleon? The room was dimly lit and the air was musty and pungent with a smell I couldn’t identify. I turned my nose up and snorted softly to expel the stench. Where was a cup of coffee when I needed it most? I was finally left staring at the back of a large, worn, leather executive chair.

“Ms. Pushkin is here, sir,” announced Bruce, startling me out of my reverie. I almost swore again. The leather executive chair swiveled around slowly, and for the first time I found myself staring at the man himself, Kip Faraday. Odd little man was the first thought that came to my mind. He stood up in greeting. Excuse me—odd, tall man. Faraday must’ve been six feet, five inches, with the build of a bean pole and hair that stood as much at attention as Faraday’s assistants. Perpetual bad hair (poor guy), aquiline nose, and glassy, bright blue eyes in an almost Neanderthal brow. Or maybe his forehead only looked prehistoric because his jaw was cut with the precision of a builder’s square.

Faraday came around his desk, and I got up from my chair. He extended his hand to me. “Thank you for taking time out to meet me, Ms. Pushkin,” he greeted me, taking my hand wholly in his and shaking it like he meant what he was saying. It was, I was sure, a well-practiced maneuver for him.

“Please, call me Lois, and it was no trouble. Thank you for calling me. It’s good to finally meet you,” I replied in turn. So far so good. I actually sounded seasoned and professional. It was all just rolling off the tongue like it was true. Wow.

Faraday turned to Bruce. “We’ll be fine. You can go now. I’ll call for you if we need anything.” Bruce left the room and Faraday remained standing before me. “What I have for you is only a small job. During the initial renovation of my home, I chose to depart from the main vision of the house and went for a very modern scheme in my executive bathroom. Very bad advice I took, I’m afraid. It turns out that I am so disturbed by this design choice that when I’m in the foul room, it begins to affect my life and my business.” He paused and then continued, searching my face for understanding. “You see, as cliché as it sounds, I find the toilet is the best place for having brainstorms and troubleshooting business issues.” He paused again to study my face.

With every bit of willpower given to me by the Powers that Be, I made no other expression on my face other than that of intense listening.

He went on, “The reason why I called you and not the original conjurer of my own personal Xanadu is because, well, she is dead.” Again, Faraday scrutinized me. I felt I was taking a pop quiz. I nodded for him to continue. “In the beginning, I wasn’t aware of how my bathroom was affecting me. One night I was having drinks with Jas here at the house, and she revealed that she totally hated that bathroom. That got us discussing its demerits and flaws. By the end of the night, we had concluded it to be the root...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 2.12.2022
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-7655-4 / 1667876554
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-7655-9 / 9781667876559