Chapter One
The walls screamed at her.
"Oh, damn," Zoe Luce whispered. She halted in the doorway
of the empty bedroom and stared at the white walls. Not
now. Not today. Not this time. I really need this job.
The walls sobbed. Terror pulsed through layers of
Sheetrock and the fresh coat of stark white paint that
covered it.
The silent shrieks ricocheted off the floor and ceiling.
She put her fingers to her temples in a purely
instinctive, utterly useless gesture. She squeezed her
eyes shut, bracing herself against the ragged bolts of icy
lightning that were shooting through her and pooling into
a glacial pond somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach.
Davis Mason had followed her so closely down the hall that
he was only a pace behind her when she came to a sudden
stop. He bumped awkwardly against her.
"Oops, sorry." He caught his balance. "I wasn't paying
attention."
"My fault." With what she hoped was an unobtrusive
movement, she eased out of the doorway back into the hall.
Things were much better out here. She could cope. She gave
Davis what she hoped was a bright, assured smile. It
wasn't easy, what with the muffled cries still leaking out
of the bedroom.
She wanted out of this house. Fast. Whatever had happened
in the bedroom had been bad.
"Hey." Davis touched her shoulder lightly. "Are you all
right, Zoe?"
She gave him another shaky smile. It was relatively easy
to smile at Davis. He had elegant lines and cleaning
styling with just the right touch of roguish flair. If
he'd been a car, he would have been a sleek, European
roadster. Judging by the spacious home, the hand-tailored
shirt and trousers, and the onyx and diamond ring he wore,
he was also wealthy. In short, she thought sadly, until
that moment, she had considered him the ideal client.
Everything had changed now, of course.
"Yes, I'm fine." She did a little on-the-spot deep
breathing, using the techniques she had learned in her
self-defense class. Summoning up her teacher's
instructions, she sought the calm, stable center that was
supposed to be somewhere deep inside her. Unfortunately,
she had not yet mastered that part of the program. All she
could feel was a bad case of the jitters coming on.
"What's wrong?" Davis was looking seriously concerned now.
"Just the start of a headache," Zoe said. "I often get one
when I forget to eat breakfast."
The lies came so easily these days. But, then, she'd had a
lot of practice. Too bad she wasn't yet clever enough to
convince herself, she thought. A little self-delusion
would be very welcome right now.
Davis watched her intently for a few seconds, and then he
relaxed. "Missed your morning shot of caffeine?"
"And food. It's a blood sugar thing. I should know
better." Feeling an urgent need to change the topic of
conversation, she looked back into the bedroom and blurted
out the first thing that came into her mind. "What
happened to the bed?"
"The bed?"
They both looked at the large, empty stretch of uncovered
hardwood flooring between two massive, mission-style
bedside tables.
Zoe swallowed uneasily. "The rest of the residence is
fully furnished," she said. "I couldn't help but notice
that there's no bed in here."
"She took it," Davis said grimly.
"Your ex-wife?"
He sighed. "She loved that damned bed. Spent months
shopping for it. I swear, it meant more to her than I did.
When she left, it was about the only thing she insisted on
taking with her in addition to her personal stuff."
"I see."
"You know how it is in a divorce. Sometimes the biggest
fights are over the smallest, dumbest things."
Whatever else it had been, Zoe thought, the missing bed
had not been small.
"I understand."
Davis searched her face. "Headache getting worse?"
"It'll be all right once I've had lunch and a cup of
coffee," she assured him.
"Tell you what. You've seen the rest of the house. I'm
sure you've got the general picture. Why don't we take a
break and get something to eat at the club? It will give
us a chance to talk over your initial impressions."
The thought of eating made her stomach churn. She knew
from experience that she would not be able to keep any
food down until the chills stopped. That could take a
while. This had been a really bad experience, and it had
caught her totally off guard.
It was her own fault. She knew better than to enter a room
so recklessly. But she had been caught up in her plans for
the interiors, completely focused, and the rest of the
spacious residence had seemed so new, so clean. She simply
had not been expecting trouble, and, as often happened,
she had paid the price.
"I'd love to join you for lunch, but I'm afraid I'll have
to take a raincheck." She made a show of glancing at her
watch. "I've got another appointment this afternoon, and I
need to prepare for it."
Davis looked hesitant. "If you're sure-"
"I'm afraid so." She tried to inject a note of apology
into her tone. "I really do have to run and you're right,
I've seen all I need to see for now." And sensed far more
than I ever wanted to know, thank you very much. "I've got
the floor plan you gave me earlier. I'll make some copies
and do some sketches that will you give you an idea of
what I have in mind."
"I'd appreciate the drawings." Davis glanced into the
bedroom and shook his head somewhat ruefully. "I'll admit
I'm not what you'd call a visual person. It's easier for
me to grasp the concept when I can see a picture."
"It's always easier when you can look at a drawing. Hang
on while I check my calendar."
She reached into her voluminous tote, one of six similar
bags in different colors that she owned. Each functioned
as a combination briefcase and purse. She had chosen the
chartreuse green one today because she liked the way it
contrasted with her deep violet pantsuit.
Groping in the vast depths, she pushed aside the small
camera, a sketchbook, measuring tape, a clear plastic box
containing an array of colored pens and felt markers, a
folder of fabric samples and the large, antique brass
doorknob attached to the ring that held the keys to her
apartment.
The appointment calendar was at the bottom. She hauled it
up to the surface and flipped it open.
"I'll get some ideas down on paper," she said
briskly, "and I'll try to have some preliminary layouts
ready for you by the end of the week. What do you say we
meet in my office Friday afternoon?"
"Friday?" Davis was clearly disappointed. "That's a week
off. Do we have to wait that long? I'd like to get started
as soon as possible. The truth is this house has been damn
depressing since my wife walked out."
Yeah, I'll bet it has, she thought.
"I understand," she said aloud, trying to sound
sympathetic. It wasn't easy, given the fact that the fine
hairs on the nape of her neck were still tingling and
there were goose bumps on her arms beneath the sleeves of
her lightweight jacket.
"I'm trying hard not to be bitter," Davis said. "But the
divorce is costing me a bundle. Got a feeling I'll be
getting bills from the lawyers for a long time."
All the available evidence indicated that Davis Mason had
come out of the divorce in excellent shape, financially.
From what she could see, he possessed a very expensive
residence, the interiors of which he was prepared to pay
her handsomely to have redesigned, and a membership in a
pricey country club. But she did not raise those points
aloud.
She was rapidly learning to be diplomatic with the newly
divorced, having discovered that they constituted a hot
market niche for interior designers such as herself.
People emerging from shattered marriages frequently
yearned to redo their living spaces as a form of therapy
to help them get past the negative emotional fallout
caused by the breakup.
She flipped through the pages of her calendar, pretending
to study her schedule. Abruptly she snapped the leather-
bound volume closed with a decisive air. "I'm afraid I'm
booked solid. Friday is the only day I can give you the
time this project deserves. Will two o'clock work for
you?"
"Looks like I don't have much choice." Davis was not
pleased. He was used to getting what he wanted. "Friday it
is. Didn't mean to sound so impatient. It's just that I'm
very anxious to get moving on the project."
"Of course. Once you've made the decision to redesign a
personal living space, there's a natural urge to rush into
the job." She spoke quickly, trying to inject a
professional, businesslike quality into her voice. "But
redoing an entire residence is a major undertaking and
mistakes at this stage can be extremely costly."
"Yeah, I found that out the hard way." He took one more
look at the bedroom. "I got as far as repainting this room
and realized I needed expert help. I didn't think I could
go wrong just putting a coat of white paint on the walls,
but as soon as I finished I realized it didn't look right.
I wanted to make it seem light and airy in here and
instead-" He shrugged and let the sentence trail off with
a who knew expression.
And instead the bedroom had all the cozy ambience of an
autopsy room or an embalming chamber, Zoe concluded
silently. No amount of the bright Arizona sunlight dancing
on the surface of the sapphire pool outside could
counteract that effect. Some of the unpleasant sensation
was attributable to the stark white paint, but she knew
that the real problem had been created by whatever it was
that had happened in this bedroom. Some things could not
be covered with a coat of paint.
She also knew that Mr. Ideal Client was not consciously
aware of the emotions trapped in the walls. To her
everlasting regret, she had never encountered anyone else
who picked up on that kind of stuff the way she did-as
pure, raw energy. But she had seen enough instances of
others reacting in subtle, unconscious ways to the
atmosphere of a particular room to be convinced that a lot
of people responded to a space on some deep, psychic
level.
She had also learned the hard way to keep her inner
knowledge to herself.
"You chose a stark bright white." She took another step
back, putting more distance between herself and the
bedroom doorway. "I know it seems like pure white should
be simple and straightforward, but it is actually very
difficult to work with because it reflects so much glare,
especially here in the desert. It also tends to create
very cold shadows when you add furnishings. Ultimately
that makes for a lack of harmony and tranquility. You were
right to stop painting after you finished this room."
"Knew it wasn't the right direction." Davis made a casual
gesture that invited her to go ahead of him down the
hall. "I have to tell you, Zoe, when I decided I needed a
professional designer, I didn't really put much stock in
this feng shui thing that you do."
"A lot of people have doubts about it until they
experience the result."
"I knew it was trendy and all. The women at the country
club are really into it. When Helen Weymouth gave me your
name, she went on and on about how you had completely
transformed her home after she got her divorce. She'd been
on the brink of putting it up for sale because of all the
bad memories, she said. She credits you with changing the
whole atmosphere of the place."
"The Weymouth project was an interesting one." Not much
farther to the front door. A couple more minutes, and she
would be out of here. "Mrs. Weymouth gave me a free hand."
"She advised me to do the same thing. A few months ago,
after Jennifer left, I would have said that all this
business of arranging the furniture to regulate the flow
of negative and positive energy was way too far out for
me. But the longer I live here alone with everything just
the way it was when she was here, the more I'm convinced
that there may be something to your design theories."
"I don't practice one particular school of feng shui." To
her horror she realized she was talking much too fast. Act
normal. You know how to do this. "I use elements of
several different approaches combined with organizational
principles from other classic design traditions such as
Vastu."
"What's that?"
"An ancient Hindu science that sets out principals for
architecture and design. I also incorporate what I
consider the most useful elements from contemporary
theories of harmony and proportion. My style is really
quite eclectic."
Actually, I pretty much make it up as I go along, she
added silently. But clients did not like to hear that.
She walked swiftly toward the front of the house,
desperate to escape into the fresh air. Now that she had
been sensitized by the experience in the bedroom, she was
picking up wispy tendrils of dark, unwholesome emotions
from other walls in the residence. She had to get out of
this place fast.
She reached the terra-cotta foyer at last. Davis was right
behind her. He opened the front door, and she escaped into
the reassuring warmth of the early October day.
"Are you sure you're feeling well enough to drive back to
your office?" Davis asked.
Act normal.
"I've got an energy bar in the car." Another lie. Was she
getting good at this or what?
"All right. Well, take care. And I'll see you on Friday."
"Right. Friday."
She gave him what she hoped was a bright, professional-
looking smile, tightened her grip on the chartreuse tote,
and went briskly toward her car. She tried not to appear
as if she was rushing away from the screaming house.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the
vehicle. Yanking open the door, she tossed the tote onto
the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, put her dark
glasses on, and fired up the engine, all in what felt like
a single motion.
Her hands were still trembling. Aftershocks from the surge
of adrenaline, she surmised. This wasn't the first time.
She could handle it.
But she had to grip the wheel very tightly in order to
steer her way out of the exclusive community. To her left
was the long stretch of impossibly green fairway that
served as the approach to the sixteenth hole of the Desert
View Country Club. Elegant homes similar to the Mason
residence were scattered artfully around the golf course.
Beyond the vivid green links stretched the rugged expanse
of the Sonoran Desert and low, rolling mountain foothills.
The golf club community and the adjoining town of
Whispering Springs were a little more than an hour's drive
from Phoenix, close enough to catch some of the spillover
from the tourist trade but far enough out to avoid the
traffic and congestion of the city.
The harsh, dry landscape had seemed a strange and alien
place to her when she had moved here a year ago, but
somewhere along the line her new environment had begun to
feel familiar, even comfortable. She had discovered an
unexpected beauty in the desert, with its spectacular
sunrises and sunsets and the astounding depths of light
and shadow. She had always been drawn to contrasts, and
there was nothing subtle about this place.
The decision to move to Whispering Springs had been a good
one, she mused, but maybe she should reconsider the career
move she had made at the same time. Interior design had
seemed like a natural, logical way to go. After all, she
had a background in the fine arts and a good, trained eye,
and she certainly knew how to get the feel of a living
space. Best of all, she hadn't needed any additional
degrees or qualifications in order to set herself up in
business legally. But today's encounter was enough to give
her some second thoughts.
A uniformed guard came out of a small building located at
the gated entrance. The emblem on his snappy khaki jacket
declared him to be an employee of Radnor Security Systems.
He greeted her politely, wished her a good day, and went
back inside his air-conditioned sanctuary to make a note
on his log.
Security was tight here in this carefully planned enclave
of wealth and status, but someone in the Mason residence
had not benefited from it.
She waited until she was clear of the gates and on her way
back toward the downtown section of Whispering Springs
before she picked up her phone. She punched in the only
number that she had coded into her speed dial.
Arcadia Ames answered on the third ring, giving the name
of her gift shop in her low, throaty voice. "Gallery
Euphoria."
Arcadia sold unique, expensive gifts to an upscale
clientele, but Zoe was pretty sure her friend could have
sold sand here in the desert with that voice.
Arcadia was her best friend, make that her only friend.
She had once had other friends, Zoe thought. But that was
a long time ago, back when she had had a real life and had
not been living in the shadows.
"It's me," Zoe said.
"What's wrong? Something happen with Mr. Ideal Client?"
"You could say that."
"He decided not to hire you after all? That idiot. But
don't worry, there will be other good clients like him.
The divorce rate doesn't seem to be going down very much."
"Unfortunately, Mason didn't change his mind," Zoe said
evenly. "I wish he had."
"Did the creep make a pass at you?"
"He was a perfect gentleman."
"He must be rich because everybody who lives in Desert
View is, by definition, a high roller," Arcadia said
patiently. "So what went wrong?"
"I think Mr. Ideal Client may have murdered his wife."