A Deadly Arrangement

  A Deadly

  Arrangement

  A Feng Shui Mystery

  Book 1

  Denise C.

  Osborne

  Wind and Water House

  Version 2.0

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagionation or are used ficitiously, and any resembalance to actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Epub edition copyright 2011 by Denise Osborne

  Epub edition produced by Wind and Water House

  eISBN: 978-0-9839353-0-8

  1. Feng Shui——Fiction 2.Female Detective——Fiction 3.Northern California——Fiction

  Originally published by Berkley Prime Crime

  September 2001

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Quote

  The Bagua

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Dedication

  This book is lovingly dedicated to my husband, Chris J. Osborne, and my mother, Alberta Barker, who both have an uncanny knack for attracting good ch’i

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the feng shui practitioners who shared their wisdom and insights, especially Cathleen Rickard, cherished friend and mentor, and Madhu Brodkey, a great teacher.

  Thanks must also be extended to Professor Lin Yun who established the Black Sect Tantric Buddhist Feng Shui School, and Grace Jagchid for guidance at the Yun Lin Temple in Berkeley, CA.

  To family members for support and tireless promotion: Diane Barker, Harrison Barker, Signe Nelson, Dana Richmond, Lorraine Kessler, Dolores Osborne, Phil Osborne, Steve Osborne, and Judy Osborne.

  To friends across the country who helped with research: Beverly Hogg, Marilyn and Mike Fitzgerald, Kathryn and Tony Gualtieri, Dianne Day, Mara Wallis and Richard Recker, John Barlow, and Kathy Ball.

  Special mention to the Capitola Women of Mystery for delightful conversation.

  Without the blessings bestowed by the aforementioned, this book could not have been written.

  While the book is a work of fiction and all characters creations of an active imagination, all material concerning the practice of feng shui is fact. Any errors are solely the author’s.

  1. Out of clutter, find simplicity.

  2. From discord, find harmony.

  3. In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.

  ——Albert Einstein

  three rules of work

  Chapter 1

  Salome Waterhouse recoiled from the sight of Palmer Fordham’s battered body, the once finely formed torso and handsome face reduced to a thick stew of blood and pulp. For an instant she wondered if she’d been set up, had walked in on a joke. His Halloween parties were legendary, this old mansion the perfect venue for staging the macabre. But it was now nearly the end of January and the corpse she’d stumbled upon all too real. She shivered as morning fog slipped in silently through the French doors and under the curtains behind her.

  Pulling her eyes off the corpse, she glanced around the shadowy, two-story living room absorbing details, straining to hear any sound, aware that besides the corpse, she might not be alone. An eternity seemed to pass as she stood frozen in place, eyes searching for some clue as to who might have murdered the well-known artist.

  Finally, when the dead stillness became unbearable, she spun around and left the way she’d entered, through the tall French doors, the diaphanous curtains swaying in her wake.

  In the short time she’d been in the house, the fog had slithered out of the nearby trees and now shrouded the veranda in what appeared to be old, tattered chiffon. She passed through it heading for the clear green patch of lawn on a slight rise, feeling as if she’d been transported into someone else’s nightmare.

  In the east, spikes of amber and pink sunlight shot through dark, turgid clouds heralding the coming storm. She finally started breathing again when she felt grass cushion her footsteps, unaware of the single trail of bloody footprints marking her passage across the veranda, now diminishing to beads of crimson on the dewy lawn. She finally stopped at the fence about a foot from a sheer seventy-foot drop. Below, a narrow roadway wound around the promontory.

  The flat gray bay spread out before her. To her left and past the nearby creek the village of Holyrood-by-the-Sea still slumbered beneath its blanket of fog. Behind her loomed the grand Spanish-style mansion and a terraced garden that rose about fifty feet to the circular drive at the front.

  Feeling a little dizzy, she gripped the top slat of the fence with both hands. The action made her aware that sometime in the last few moments she’d dropped her briefcase. She started to turn, but stopped. No way was she going back. Abruptly, she patted the pockets of her long black robe, a garment similar to a priest’s cassock, and sighed in relief when she felt the little cell phone always kept it in her pocket during a consultation. Under the circumstances, she excused herself for a certain amount of confusion as to its whereabouts.

  She called the home of Holyrood’s chief of police, her cousin, Phyllis Waterhouse. Instead of soothing her, Phyl’s groggy voice only added to the rich mix of sensations, stirring up a lifetime of petty, unresolved quarrels. Still, had she simply called 911 she could expect to be chastised for not calling her cousin directly.

  “Are you in the house?” Phyl asked.

  “No, on the lawn by the cliff.”

  “You see or hear anyone in the vicinity?” Phyl asked.

  “No, everything’s quiet.”

  “Stay put. And don’t go back to the scene. I’ll be right there.”

  Salome returned the phone to her right pocket then raised her hands to gut level, palms up, the left hand covering the right. With her thumbs nearly touching, she began to chant the heart calming mantra to prepare herself for the upcoming confrontation. Life was over for Palmer Fordham but, for the living, the effects of his murder were just beginning.

  “Gatay, gatay, para gatay, para sam gatay, bodhi swaha...”

  Silhouetted against the dawn-tinted pewter sky, Salome appeared to be little more than an inky stroke from an Asian calligrapher’s brush. At least that was the image conjured by the one person watching.

  Just before sunrise, Salome had begun her day by chanting the same heart calming meditation nine times, the first step in priming herself for the upcoming feng shui consultation. So ingrained were the words and timing, she automatically stopped after the ninth chant.

  She ate some fruit, showered, dusted her angular cheekbones with blusher, added maroon lipstick then twisted her shiny black mane into a bun. Though middle-aged, she had no gray. Her Japanese-American mother hadn’t sprouted gray until her mid-seventies.

  Moving into the adjacent dressing room, she pulled one of several identical “uniforms” from the closet. Of her own design, the black robe was of a lightweight wool and silk blend and had a stiff Chinese collar, black satin frogs securing the bodice, long tight sleeves, a full, ankle-length skirt and two roomy pockets.

  While securing the frogs, she slipped on a pair of butter soft black leather walking shoes with lightly pebbled interiors and thick soles. Now in her fifth year as a feng shui practitioner, she knew well the importance of comfortable footwear as she spent most of the consultation on her feet.

  Of the many practitioners she knew—and their numbers were burgeoning as feng shui caught on in the U.S. and Europe—all wore western attire. But she believed that dressing like the ancient Chinese practitioners augmented both her credibility and clients’ respect for her knowledge and advice.

  Finally, she strapped on a small watch, a black and white tai chi, or yin yang symbol, on the face. It was 7:01 a.m. and the appointment was for 7:30. Enough time to walk to the consultation.

  Salome left her cliff-side cottage via the patio, locked the slider then dropped the keys into the lightweight black leather briefcase containing her varied and unusual tools. She’d taken but a few steps when dread broke into her calm. The client’s celebrity didn’t bother her a number of her clients were famous—but
the circumstances surrounding this particular consultation, and indeed, the venue itself, did.

  During his five-year tenancy, Salome had had no reason to visit her tenant, Palmer Fordham, nor the mansion. Since she wintered in Holyrood from late October until March, she always received an invitation to his Halloween parties but had never attended believing it unwise to socialize with a tenant. Then, three days ago, a padded envelope arrived sporting a local postmark but no return address. Inside were two thousand dollars cash and a sheet of ordinary paper with typed instructions. She was to appear at the Perfume Mansion on this date at seven-thirty a.m. for a feng shui consultation. Do not call ahead. This is to be a surprise birthday gift, the mysterious sender concluded.

  She took a calming breath of the cool morning air and glanced out past the neat lawn to Monterey Bay. In the still dawn, with hardly a ripple on the surface, the water resembled a sheet of metal able to support anyone wanting to walk across it to the misty blue headlands to the south. Feeling steadier, she crossed the patio then followed the curving path of nine stepping-stones imbedded in the grass to the redwood arbor where a little wind chime with five prongs hung motionless. She gave it a swat as she passed through to Sea Horse Lane, enjoying the brief tinkling sound that broke the quiet.

  Just as she was rounding the high shrubbery at the intersection of Sea Horse Lane and Dolphin Way, she and an early morning jogger nearly collided.

  “Salome! Good morning,” Janelle Phillips said brightly.

  “Good heaven’s, Janelle, you nearly knocked me down!”

  “Sorry. Maybe I should install headlights and a horn.”

  Janelle’s thick blonde ponytail swung from side to side as she jogged in place. At nearly six feet, she topped Salome by about six inches. Despite the cold, she wore a pink sports bra, fuchsia spandex shorts and white running shoes. Though probably in her mid-forties, she looked just north of thirty, a testament to the staying power of a former Miss America contender with access to the best cosmetic surgeons in the country.

  Just last month Salome performed her services on the four bedroom “hideaway” Janelle and her oil baron husband used whenever they tired of Houston’s heat and humidity and wanted the more bracing air common to the central Pacific coast.

  “You off to a consultation?”

  Being a client entitled Janelle to a bit more than a curt good-bye.

  But before Salome could reply, Janelle exclaimed, “You won’t believe this—but of course you will—Tommy puts the toilet seat and lid down after he pees! Twenty years I’ve been tryin’ to get him to do that and you made it happen. Hope you’re ready to travel, honey, ‘cause I told all my friends in Texas about you. Don’t worry, though, I haven’t breathed a word about the toilet secret. Let them pay for it.”

  Salome had to smile. What Janelle called the “toilet secret” had probably done more to increase her client base than any of the many house enhancements in her repertoire. Her female clients invariably passed the word that Salome Waterhouse had the answer to the age-old problem of how to get men to put down the toilet seat and lid.

  “Must be good money in fing shuey,” Janelle went on, mangling the words. “Since you can afford to live up here and all. Maybe I should take it up—just in case Tommy’s wells dry up.”

  “It’s pronounced fung shuway,” Salome corrected, finally able to get a word in. But she didn’t have time for a chat.

  “Fung shuway,” Janelle repeated slowly without a trace of embarrassment.

  “Well, I’d best be going,” Salome said already moving away. “Have a good—”

  “Maybe I could stop by, get the name of a school or somethin’,” Janelle called out.

  “Yes, do that.” Salome increased the speed and length of her stride.

  “Fog’s rollin’ into the village—if you’re headed that way.”

  Without turning, Salome lifted her hand and waved. While always a talker, Janelle seemed somewhat manic this morning, her eyes unnaturally bright as if she’d taken a stimulant. But Salome didn’t know her that well and could be she was projecting her own unease onto the other woman.

  Janelle watched Salome until she disappeared around the next corner onto Starfish Lane.

  In a few moments, Salome reached the overlook marking the western boundary of the Bluff as this residential section of Holyrood was known. Set among wild rosemary, lavender and dainty primroses were several benches from which to enjoy an unobstructed view of Holyrood-by-the-Sea’s natural and man-made attractions. Nearby, steep concrete steps provided a shortcut down to the village.

  Just below was the Sebastian Theater and beyond it, the wharf that stretched out into the bay, a restaurant and boathouse at the end.

  Like a natural amphitheater, the village itself swept up from the wide crescent of beach to Holyrood church on Holyrood Hill. Close to shore were expensive beachfront restaurants, art galleries, vintage lodgings and quaint shops. Further back were the whimsical cottages nestled in the trees and shrubs that seemed to have been transported from the pages of a fairy tale. Built early in the twentieth century, they defined the character of Holyrood.

  As Janelle mentioned, morning fog rolled from the sea all the way up to the church green. On sunny days and clear nights one could imagine elves and fairies cavorting around the storybook houses and shops. In fog, though, one’s imagination turned to more sinister beings—trolls, witches and evil-spirited imps.

  Salome paused for a moment, her gaze traveling across roof and tree tops to the Perfume Creek so named for a cannery that long ago stunk up its shores. Wisps of fog spiraled off the surface. On the steep opposite bank, fat acacias, stylishly slim eucalypts and sturdy pines shielded most of the solitary Spanish mansion from sight. But from her vantage point, Salome could see the red-tiled roof and top floor windows, which reflected the orangery-pink dawn light, shinning like sheets of copper. This was the Perfume Mansion, so named because of proximity to the creek, a property she inherited from her grandfather, Joshua Waterhouse, one of Holyrood’s founding fathers.

  An incident in childhood had left her with an unshakeable—and what some thought, unreasonable—fear of the place. On her seventh birthday, while exploring the Perfume’s underground rooms, she and her cousin Phyllis had become separated. Alone, Salome stumbled into a chamber that appeared to be filled with screaming children. Terrified, she’d blindly fled and somehow ended up in the Perfume Creek. She might have drowned had Phyllis not heard her thrashing and sputtering and dragged her out of the water and up onto the creekside walkway. She’d begged her parents and grandparents to look for the room with the frightened children but her grandfather sternly refused. He had built the mansion and declared that no such room existed—except in her imagination.

  The Perfume was also, on this morning, her destination. Last night while studying the mansion’s blueprints in preparation for the consultation, she’d felt the old fear stirring even though nothing on paper indicated a hidden room. Since inheriting the mansion when her grandfather died, she’d been in the subterranean chambers a few times, always in the company of the housekeeper—but not since becoming a feng shui practitioner. Now it seemed, the time had come to put the old fear to rest. If there really was a secret room, maybe she’d find it today.

  Feeling both excitement and trepidation, Salome gripped the cold metal handrail and skurried down the concrete steps, her black skirt billowing in her wake. A moment later, like one of those imagined witches, she vanished into the fog.

  By the ninth and final chant, Salome’s voice was strong and even, testament to the mantra’s power. While taking a restorative breath of brine-scented air, she heard tires crunching the gravel drive above her. That would be Phyl. At this hour, there was no need of a siren. Too, short of a fire, the city fathers would not be pleased by any superfluous noise disturbing those few tourists who chose to spend their dollars in Holyrood in winter.

  At least, she hoped it was Phyl. But what if it wasn’t? What if the killer had returned, having no idea she’d discovered the body and that the police were on their way?

  She started to call out, then thought better of it. If it wasn’t Phyl, she’d be a fool to announce herself.