FATAL FENG SHUI CHAPTER ONE Confidence and optimism," I muttered as I made my way along the curving concrete walkway toward Shannon Dupree Young's front door. "Pardon?" Steve Sullivan said. "Nothing." My cheeks warmed; I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud. We'd merged our interior design companies less than two months ago, and I'd have preferred not to have him discover my idiosyncrasies quite so soon. "That's the mantra I use whenever I get nervous." "You're nervous about this job?" I scanned his handsome features, expecting to see a wry grin to indicate he was being sarcastic. Things had grown steadily worse here in the six weeks since Shannon had signed on as our very first client. "A little. Aren't you?" "Nah. What's there to worry about? Just a feud raging between neighbors, and our client on the verge of a nervous breakdown. That's par for the course for us." He was being gracious by not pointing fingers. In the past year, my one-woman company, Designs by Gilbert, had experienced such bizarre problems with a few of its clients that I qualified for hazardous-duty pay. Sullivan Designs had somehow gotten dragged into the fray more than once. On the south side of Shannon's original entranceway, the construction of her addition was behind schedule but was finally starting to take shape. We were about to enter the fun phase of remodeling. Normally, I'd have to hold myself back from racing to the door. My head would be filled with one magical, delectable possibility after another—rainbows of colors, astonishing materials and furnishings. For me, designing a space was nothing less than being able to make my clients' dreams come true, and I enjoyed that joyous journey more than I could say. This particular client's "dream" was turning out to be a nightmare, however. Thanks to the proverbial Neighbor from Hell—Pate Hamlin. I turned and eyed his house. Shannon had called us in hysterics last night about that sprawling, fortress-like structure directly across the street. The protruding peak of the roof over its new porch was indeed pointing straight at this home—a feng shui no-no. "It's just that Shannon seemed so nice and rational at first," I explained to Sullivan. "I never imagined she'd wind up so paranoid . . . thinking her neighbor's architecture was putting her in physical danger." During our phone conversation last night, Shannon had declared that this was "now officially a no-holes-barred feng shui war." She'd asked us to launch a counteroffensive against her neighbor's designer. That notion made me severely uncomfortable. Granted, during the monumentally rocky start to our relationship, Sullivan and I had waged many a battle, but I'd naively thought those days were behind me now that we'd joined forces. "'Everybody was feng shui fighting . . .'" Sullivan sang to the tune of "Kung Foo Fighting" as he brushed past me. "Very funny," I said, resisting a smile. Although neither of us was an expert in the art of feng shui, we weren't neophytes either. We had a healthy respect for its ancient principles, which have more than stood the test of time. Feng shui was among the first schools of design—a beautiful philosophy of harmonizing one's home with its surroundings. We climbed the steps to Shannon's front porch, which would soon be removed. In its place, we had a fabulous design for a cedar wraparound deck. Its rich wood and gorgeous geometric patterns would embrace both the new and the original entrances of this home. Our additions emphasized and augmented the home's best elements. Unlike her neighbor's slap-happy ad-ons, which the architect had apparently drawn up while bouncing around in an old pickup truck. (My refusal to engage in a fung shei war did not, alas, morph me into the Mother Teresa of interior designers.) "Oh, jeez," Sullivan said. I followed his gaze. Shannon had recently painted a red dragon on the center panel of her front door. While I was studying her intricate handiwork, Sullivan suddenly staggered forward, clutching at the center of his back. "Ow! Help me, Gilbert! I think I just got hit by a feng shui arrow!" "Keep your voice down!" I pressed the doorbell to Shannon Young's house. "If she hears us making cracks about this, our first official job as 'Gilbert and Sullivan Designs' will end today." "You meant—" he paused as Shannon threw open the door "—Sullivan and Gilbert,'" he continued with a smile, deftly turning his correction of me into a greeting. "I remember who you are," Shannon snapped. "Hurry up and get in here." She all but yanked us inside and shut the heavy door behind us. She seemed afraid that we would literally be shot if we stayed too long on her porch. I had to regain my composure at her appearance. Shannon had always struck me as being wound far too tight, but now the thin, attractive, fortyish woman appeared to be on the verge of exploding. Her eyes were bloodshot and she puffed fiendishly on a cigarette. Her strawberry-blond, wavy hair was an unruly mess—a "Bride of Frankenstein" look. She was wearing her navy-blue artist's smock over a plum-colored jogging suit. Her feet were clad in mismatched sandals and white socks. She looked at us expectantly. "Well? What are you going to do about this? You can see for yourself what that awful man is trying to pull!" "With his front porch, you mean?" I was already dying to throw open a window. The air reeked of stale smoke. "The eave of the roof over it! It's a triangle! And not just any triangle, mind you. This one's a jutting triangle! Pate Hamlin is deliberately aiming that sharp point right at me through my window! I haven't been able to work with that . . . that vile weapon, aimed straight at me!" "We sympathize, Shannon." Sullivan said. "Anything he can do to you with his exterior design, we can undo with yours." She put a hand on one hip and looked at him in disgust. "Are you deliberately trying to sound like Annie Oakley . . . 'Anything you can do, I can do better'? This is all just fun and games to you too, isn't it! You design a new entranceway to my house, he aims his roof right at the windows in my studio." Calmly trying again, Sullivan began: "One possible solution would be—" "My studio is where my creative yin forces are the strongest," she interrupted, gesturing at that doorway. Her art studio was adjacent to the stark foyer where we now stood. "I can't work anyplace else! What am I supposed to do? Build a fence out of funhouse mirrors? How the hell will I get any work done with something like that, uglifying my environment?" I gazed into her studio. Unlike this white-washed, forlorn space, that room was so warm and airy with its log-cabin-like natural walls, the windows and skylights, the red terra cotta tile floor . . . "Haven't you people ever worked for an artist before? Don't you know anything at all about creative inspiration? Artistic vision?" The harsh words snapped me out of my reverie. "Of course, Shannon." My tone, I was proud to admit, sounded soothing and professional. "Steve's and my occupation also hinges on creative inspiration, and on our artistic vision." Behind the outside wall of the current living room, two or three carpenters were making quite a racket as they worked to finish up the addition. I'm sure all that noise wasn't helping Shannon's mood or her "artistic vision," either. She took a drag on her cigarette and lifted her chin as she blew out a cloud of smoke. "You're right. . . you're right. I'm so rattled, I don't even know what I'm saying." She grumbled, "Artist's temperament. Forgive me." "That's totally understandable, Shannon," Sullivan said gently. Seemingly oblivious to his charm, she corkscrewed an already tangled section of hair around her index finger and glared at the checkerboard Linoleum floor, which we'd soon be replacing with yummy wide-plank maple. Although high-strung, Shannon was talented and successful. Her haunting modern oil paintings with their bright primary colors and rich shadings had struck a chord with people all around the world. She'd recently been profiled in several travel magazines, and more than one enthusiastic reviewer had stated that Shannon Dupree—(she signed her work with her maiden name)—was doing for Crestview, Colorado, what R.C. Gorman had done for Santa Fe. She was also a relatively recent feng shui devotee, with all the boundless zeal of a new convert to a worthy cause. "Our use of mirrors can be subtle, as we reflect the negative energy lines right back at him, Shannon," Sullivan continued. "We should be able to install one-way glass in your windows, though they're banned inside city limits. You'll be able to see out as though they were clear glass, but they're silver or gold mirrors on the other side." While puffing on her cigarette, she nodded. "Erin already mentioned that idea last night, over the phone." I decided to pose the obvious question. "Have you tried talking to your neighbor about his porch roof?" She chuckled. "Talk? To Pate?" She flicked her wrist at me. "Puh-lease. You've obviously never met the man. Trust me. I'm not a glutton for punishment." "How about having your husband talk to him, then?" I asked. "Pate might be the macho type who does better with man-to-man conversations." Her husband, Michael Young, was a talented chef whom my dear friend and landlady, Audrey Munroe, hosted periodically on her show. Lately he'd given me the impression that he was worried that his wife was slipping over the edge. Perhaps with good reason. Shannon snorted. "Oh, that wouldn't do any good. Michael doesn't understand why I love this place so. He doesn't share my same family history. I inherited this house from my parents, long before he and I met. I told you about all this when I first hired you, remember? And how Pate was trying to force me to sell to him?" She cast a disparaging glance out her front window as she stubbed out her cigarette in a striking—if oversized and nonetheless overflowing—ceramic ashtray, undoubtedly yet another of her amazing creations. "You know, Pate isn't really even a feng shui practitioner," she scoffed. "The pompous phony just wants to use my belief system against me. He's trying to drive me so nuts that I'll sell just to get away from him. As if all those oversized, octagonal caps on his fence posts weren't bad enough! Now I've got a knife-point aimed at the window of my studio! At least it's out of line with my new entrance . . . and the store front." "'Store front'?" Sullivan and I asked simultaneously. "You wanted that space to be your new living room, didn't you?" Sullivan asked. "Things have changed. Ang Chung said I'd be able to double my profits by setting up a gallery here." Sullivan and I exchanged glances. In a New Age, college town like Crestview, we had several fung shei experts in the area. Ang Chung, however, had failed to impress either of us, and we'd been extremely disappointed to learn last month that Shannon had already hired him to work in tandem with us. "Ang's advising you to sell your work from out of your house?" Sullivan asked. "Absolutely. I can't control the feng shui environment of the galleries downtown, like I can here. Some of them are just . . . all wrong. Those people are cutting chis as if energy lines are sandwich meat! So I'm pulling all my pieces as soon as the remodel is finished. I'll market them myself. Ang says he can tell me exactly where to place each painting in my house so it'll fetch the highest price. He's charting out the most profitable alignment for my new showroom and guarantees this'll be a regular financial windfall." She frowned. "Just so long as the forces haven't been thrown off-kilter by outside energy fields. And now, thanks to Pate Hamlin, that's exactly what's happening!" "But you're fifteen miles from downtown Crestview here," Sullivan pointed out, just a moment before I could raise the same objection. "You'll lose all the exposure from having your paintings in gallery windows along the pedestrian mall." She shrugged. "That's what I was worried about, too, but Ang says his plan will prove to be more profitable for me this way." "Have you gotten any second opinions on his readings, Shannon? There are lots of highly qualified feng shui consultants in Crestview, you know." She narrowed her eyes at me as though I was spouting blasphemy. "That's part of what I'm paying you two to do. So far, the three of you are in perfect harmony. Ang also says a good start would be for us to install the mirrored windows. In every window in the house that faces Pate's monstrosity." "That's what we'll do, then." Sullivan forced a smile. "We'll make it work." "We can also do some creative things with your landscaping to ward off negative energy fields," I added. "Ang told me. He's outside with the contractor right now, showing him how to build the gazebo that we want. Ang's also a certified landscape artist, you know." He must have gotten his certification out of the same Cracker Jack box that held his feng shui credentials. She went into the studio, cranked open a window, and leaned outside. "David? Can you come in here, please?" When she didn't return to the foyer, Sullivan and I migrated into the studio with her. "We'll turn your living room design into an art gallery, if you're sure that's what you want," I said. "It is." Shannon fired up a new cigarette. David Lewis, her contractor, let himself inside and gingerly entered the room. He had been hired from Sullivan's list of sub-contractors instead of from my own. He was a tall, angular man with sandy-colored hair that seemed to be perpetually flecked with sawdust. He now had the beleaguered look of someone who'd taken a few too many directives from our hard-to-please, frenetic homeowner. "Just like Ang and I predicted yesterday," Shannon declared, "Gilbert and Sullivan want me to use one-way glass. You'll install them in every window with the slightest view of Jerk Face's monstrosity." David shook his head. "We can't do that, Shannon. I already checked with the building inspectors. Crestview county doesn't allow one-way glass to be installed in private residences. They feel the sun reflecting on a mirrored surface doesn't . . . look good." "But this isn't just a private residence. Some of the windows will be in the portion of my house that's used to create the source of my income." He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Mirrored glass is banned in residential neighborhoods, Shannon." As though she was speaking to a simpleton, Shannon spread her arms and announced, "Then make them change the rules, David! Make it happen!" "I'll . . . see what I can do. But there's going to be layers upon layers of red tape. It'll take several months to push a thing like that through." She sneered at him. "You've got quite a no-can-do attitude, there. Maybe I should get a contractor with more clout." "Clout's got nothing to do with anything." "Oh, please! You don't think Pate Hamlin paid off city officials so they'd approve of all his ridiculous-looking additions? This has everything to do with clout! But just because Pate Hamlin is some kind of hot-shot multi-millionaire doesn't give him the right to destroy my home! We're waging a counterattack, David. And you're either capable of going toe to toe with that bastard, or I'm replacing you with someone who can!" "Shannon? Why is Pate so determined to buy your house in the first place?" Sullivan's question was an obvious attempt to defuse the tension; she'd told us why when she first hired us. "He wants my land," she huffed. "I've got eight acres . . . more than he does. Plus I've got the better view of the Rockies." She took a long drag on her cigarette and narrowed her eyes at David. "Which reminds me. Have you talked to that foreman of yours yet? There's no way I'm going to allow you people to fraternize with enemy, you know." "Yeah, I did. You're sure it was Duncan you saw with Pate Hamlin?" David asked. "I'm positive. The two of them were over here yesterday, sharing a beer and a laugh at my expense." "Duncan swears he doesn't touch the stuff, Shannon. He's a recovering alcoholic." "Maybe he was drinking soda, while Pate was drinking beer, then. That's not the point! I'm certain he took Pate on a guided tour of my home while I was out." She looked at Sullivan and me and cried, "I could smell that vile man's cologne throughout my entire house!" Frankly, it was hard to believe a chain smoker's sense of smell was all that keen. (Considering Shannon's current mood, that was an observation best kept to myself.) David said, "My foreman swears he's never taken anyone inside your house." "He's lying." She waved her lit cigarette in front of David's face. "Which he probably gets from you. You told me the front construction would be complete by mid-October, and it's already November. Meanwhile, your work here is so shoddy, it's like you're getting paid to sabotage the construction." He balled his fists and took a step toward her. "Before we order the one-way glass, Shannon," I interjected hastily, "Steve and I will talk with Mr. Hamlin and his designer. Maybe we can call some sort of truce." She rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself, but you'll be wasting your breath. Rebecca Berringer knows precisely what she's doing. She's a lot feng-shui-er a designer than you two are. In fact, she was my first choice, till I learned she was working for Pate. No offense. It was Michael who wanted us to hire you." I was taken aback by this news but managed to murmur, "That was nice of him." "Oh, well, he was just trying to suck up to Audrey Munroe." She took another anxious drag on her cigarette and puffed out the smoke. She looked a bit like a fire-breathing dragon. "He knows how close you and your landlady are. He wants more money for his appearances on her show. Though I've gotten to be friends with Audrey myself lately. We have a shared interest in preserving Crestview's character. Did she tell you about our committee?" I shook my head, unable to focus on this turn in the conversation; David was still red-faced and tense. He glared at her with raw fury. "David," Sullivan said laying a hand on the man's shoulder, "let's take a look at your plans and see how things are coming along." "Yeah. Sounds like a good idea." "We'll be back soon, Shannon," I said and quietly closed the door behind us. I took some much needed breaths of the crisp autumnal air. My "confidence and optimism" mantra would be getting quite the workout. Now that we'd finished up some short-term jobs, we had more time to devote to Shannon's home. That, unfortunately, meant we'd spend more time with Ang Chung, whom we both suspected was either a flake or a conman. Meanwhile, Steve's contractor, David Lewis, had missed one completion deadline after another. Our brilliant client whom we'd been so ecstatic to land was turning into a whiny shrew before our eyes. I didn't even want to think about the personal ramifications of having to convince designer Rebecca Berringer, of all people, to cooperate with us; no ethical feng shui practitioner would have designed a porch roof like that in the first place. As we rounded the house, Sullivan said quietly to David, "Shannon's something of a . . . crab at the moment. But she does have a point. The front's finally coming along, but you haven't even started on the back. What's the holdup?" "Problem's with the new foreman I hired last week. Thought he'd work out better than he has so far. You'll see what I mean when you meet him." Despite Shannon's mention of Ang Chung's having been outside with David, there was only the one person behind the house. My jaw dropped when I spotted the huge lumber-jack of a man working at the table saw with his back to us. The guy was a twin for my half-brother. It couldn't actually be him, though. Taylor Duncan was only halfway through a year-long sentence in the county jail. The man turned. "Taylor!" I cried. He shut off his saw and removed his safety goggles. "Hey, sis," he said. © Leslie Caine Buy the book from Barnes & Noble or an independent bookstore.