Designed for Death (6 page)

It was early in the day for a cocktail dress. Hers, in violet chiffon, had a high neckline, long, puffy sleeves to the wrist, and a flounced hem that careened to a stop well above her knees. Her chandelier earrings sparkled in the overheads. Bouffant black hair and the shades hid what little I could see of her face.

Though a cool, westerly breeze flowed through the clubroom, Faye fanned herself with her fringed cocktail bag and stepped in closer. I tightened my grip on the hammer.

“I’ve been trying to reach Treasure for hours, but she isn’t answering her cell, and she
always
picks up. Female curiosity, don’t you know? So as soon as I got in from Key West, I went upstairs to check on her.” Faye’s chin quivered, and so did her voice. “There’s crime scene tape across her door.” She paused, her voice caught. “I’m afraid to ask, but I have to or die.”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” I pulled out a chair and put the hammer on the table, keeping it nearby just in case.

“No. Just tell me.” Faye drew herself up to her full, awesome height and stopped fanning.

“Something’s happened.” I hesitated, not sure how to go on. But there was really only one way, and I forced myself to plunge ahead. “I’m sorry but…Treasure’s dead.”

To ease the impact, I let the awful words fall as soft as spring rain, but my ploy failed utterly. Faye’s proud pose crumpled, and she clutched the chair back.

“Please sit down, Faye. This isn’t—”

“How?” she bellowed, her voice an octave lower.

“Strangled. The police are calling it murder.”

She gasped, shock siphoning the blood from her face. “He shouldn’t have done it.”

“Who shouldn’t have done what?”

Before she could answer, her hold on the chair loosened, and slowly, as if pantomiming a faint, she slid to the floor at my feet, her stilettos pointing skyward, her flounced skirt up to her lacy panties. Knocked clear off her head, her black wig sprawled like a spider on the speckled carpet.

Without her wig, Faye was bald as a grapefruit.

Stunned, I dropped to my knees and fanned her with the fringed handbag. It was clear there was more to Faye than I had first assumed. No matter. This was no killer. This was someone life had just hit with a body blow. I knew exactly how Faye felt.

I fainted when they told me about you, Jack. Who wouldn’t block out a sucker punch like that?

Faye had worn the wig for a good reason—she wouldn’t want people to see her without it. I removed her sunglasses, raised her head and slid the wig onto her naked scalp, settling the bangs over her forehead as best I could.

Stretched out full length on the floor, she looked like a California redwood. Alone, I’d never be able to get her up and on her feet.

I fanned like mad, keeping the handbag fringe going, pleading, “Come on, Faye, open your eyes.”

Nothing. Not even a flutter of those foot-long lashes. Maybe she’d struck her head when she fell. Maybe she’d had a heart attack. A stroke? Maybe I should leave her and call for help? With my adrenaline spiking again, I was about to run for a phone when a shadow darkened the open door. “Hey!” I yelled. “Help in here! Help!”

Dick poked his head inside. “Cripes, what now?” He set down two paint cans and hurried over, braking to a halt when he spotted Faye spread-eagled on the floor. He pointed a finger. “Who’s this?”

“Treasure’s friend. I told her about the murder, and she passed out.”

“Terrific. More trouble.” With a put-upon sigh, he crouched down and began patting Faye’s cheeks. Left, right. Left, right. After a couple of swipes, he yanked his hand away as if he’d been scalded. “What the hell.” He rocked back on his heels, his mouth turning down in disgust.

“What’s the matter?”

“Feel her chin.”

I knew what I’d find but ran a fingertip over her cheek anyway. Under a thick layer of makeup, the beginning of stubble sharp enough to cause a whisker burn pricked my finger.

“It’s a guy in drag.” Dick leaped up as if drag were contagious and wiped his hands on his cutoffs. “What a mess.”

Still down by Faye’s side, I looked across at a stranger. Mr. Nice Guy of yesterday had disappeared. “We can’t just leave her here. She needs a doctor. Suppose she dies.”

“He, not she.”

“Whatever. She—he—needs help.”

“Yeah, I’ll help her—him—right out of here.”

Tool belt clanking, Dick hurried into the kitchen while I sat next to Faye, patting her hand, cooing her name, hoping her eyes would flutter open. In a couple of heartbeats, Dick came back with a glass of water, leaned over Faye and tossed the water on her face.

As soon as it hit, her eyes—big, gray and leaking mascara—snapped wide open, and she mewled like a kitten in distress.

“See, what did I tell ya? Dick the Doc performed a miracle.” Dick slammed the empty glass on a table. “She’s—he’s—all yours. I gotta go help Neal. He’s waitin’ for me.” He snatched up the paint cans and stalked out of the clubroom without so much as a backward glance.

Faye moaned and plucked at her wig. “I’m wet.”

“It’s okay,” I assured her. “Can you sit up?”

“I’ll try.” She burst into tears.

Oh, boy.
I ran into the kitchen and ripped off a sheet of paper towel. When I dashed back, Faye sat huddled on a chair, her head cradled in her hands.

“Here you are.” I offered her the towel.

“Thank you.” She took it and sat up. After she wiped her eyes, she blew her cute little nose and leaned into the chair back. “There’s something you should know.”

No kidding.

“Oh?” I feigned indifference.

“Treasure and I were dear friends.”

Interesting, but not exactly jaw-dropping news.

“Actually…” Faye stopped talking long enough to give the wig a tug, “…we were roomies for years.”

Treasure and Faye? Another odd couple?

“And then she—”

“She what?”

Faye shook her head, causing the wig to shift, pushing the bangs off center. “I promised not to tell. Please don’t ask me a thing.” She yanked at the wig again, oblivious to the mascara railroad tracks running down her cheeks. I decided not to mention them.

I eyed the empty glass. “Would you like some water?”

“No thanks.” She patted her damp hair. “I’ve had enough.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was, for everything.

Faye caressed my hand. Her fingers ended in long magenta nails. “Darling, of course you are. Treasure liked you and always said lovely things about you.” She blotted her tears with the towel and looked around with unseeing eyes. “Where’s my purse?”

“On the floor.”

“And my shades?”

I picked them up and handed them to her.

She held out the bag for me to admire. “Treasure gave me this.”

“Beautiful,” I fibbed. “And I like your dress.” I was grasping for conversational straws here. After all, what could you say to a soaking wet transvestite who just found out her ex-roommate had been murdered?

“The frock’s a Donna K. You can borrow it anytime.”

“Thanks, but the size…”

“Oh. Right.” Faye sucked the sniffles up her nose, put on the sunglasses and stood, balancing unsteadily on her spikes. Like a countess at a ball, she extended a hand.

I took it, wincing as she squeezed my fingers in a bone-crushing grip.

“Oh, dear, I keep forgetting my own strength.” She let go immediately, only to grab me in a massive hug so tight the stubble on her chin scratched my cheek.

“Hi, girls!”

I knew that voice. I squirmed free of Faye’s embrace and glanced toward the open doorway. Neal stood there uncertainly as if he didn’t know whether to come in or run away. “Dick sent me down for a screwdriver. Am I interrupting something?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “Come in.”

While I wiggled my fingers to bring back the circulation, Faye rummaged in her handbag, extracted a business card and presented it to me with a flourish. Then she stomped over to Neal and stuck out her hand. “I’m Faye, Treasure’s friend.”

“Pleased to meet you, but sorry for the circumstances.”

“Thank you, lovely. That means a lot.”

She handed him a card. “Catch my act some night. You’ll be my guest. You and a date, maybe.” Despite her sorrow, her carefully penciled eyebrows arched into perfect upside down V’s.

Neal had apparently forgotten all about the screwdriver. He just stood there motionless, his mouth ajar, taking in Faye’s stubble, her wig and her cocktail ensemble.

I glanced at my card.
Faye LaBelle. Starring nightly at The Foxy Lady Lounge. Route 951. East Naples. 555-6969.
I tucked it in my shorts pocket.

Faye wiped away an errant tear and strode to the door, her skirt swishing, her earrings swaying. “Treasure would expect me to carry on, so I will. We were finished, anyway. No matter how much it hurt me, she was dying to move into Surfside. Couldn’t wait, she said. Imagine that. After all the years we spent together. But you know what hurt the most?”

I shook my head, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.

“She told me never to come here. She was ashamed of me. I promised I wouldn’t, but today I had to. You understand.”

Poor Faye. I nodded. “I’m glad you did.” At least I thought I was. What she’d just revealed made me wonder about Treasure. Had she been a transvestite too? No, not possible. I’d seen her naked and she’d been all girl.

Choking down a sob, Faye pressed the damp towel to her mouth and hurried out of the clubroom. Neal and I followed her to the guest carport and watched as she jumped into a lipstick-red Camaro, the color an exact match to her fingernails. Waggling her hand, she flashed us a brave smile and, wig perched at a jaunty angle, mascara railroad tracks en route to her chin, she drove off, laying a patch of rubber half a block long.

As I waved good-bye, I knew that the minute I got home, I’d have to call Rossi. I didn’t have a choice. He’d said everyone who knew the victim was a suspect. And Faye apparently knew Treasure better than anyone.

Chapter Seven

“Deva!”

The pictures hung at last, I’d locked the clubroom, eager to get home and phone Rossi, when Simon called my name. Funny how I recognized his voice right away even though we’d met only two days earlier.

He stepped out of the elevator and strode toward me in a black suit, white shirt and striped tie. I was impressed. In Florida, a man’s pants rarely matched his jacket.

“You’re looking very handsome,” I said, meaning it.

“Thank you.” He smiled, causing fine lines to crinkle around the edges of his eyes. In the bright sunlight, a sprinkle of gray showed at his temples. Just enough lines and just enough gray to make him distinguished. Clothes didn’t make the man; it was the other way around. So I guess it really wasn’t the suit I admired.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked. “I can see my face in your shoes.”

He ran a finger under his collar though it didn’t look tight. “An initial meeting with some major clients.”

Yesterday, he’d told me his firm—Yanish, Devine & Bilodeau on Fifth Avenue South, in the heart of old-money Naples—handled tax and estate planning for the city’s biggest movers and shakers. No wonder he’d suited up in Brooks Brothers.

He pointed at the door I’d just locked. “What’s going on in the clubroom today?”

“Nothing right now. You missed the excitement.”

“Too bad. I could use a little.” The shine in his eyes told me we were on a different page here.

“Is that so? Well, Treasure’s old roommate, Faye LaBelle, came to call. She’s…he’s…a transvestite. Performs at the Foxy Lady Lounge.”

“That sleazy dump on the edge of town? The one plastered on billboards along I-75?”

I shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Good grief.” He frowned and shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other. Something was bothering him. It couldn’t be my news about Faye. His meeting?

He lifted a hand toward his neatly combed hair but caught himself in the nick of time. Then, awkward as a sixteen-year-old looking for a prom date, he asked, “I was wondering, Deva, if you’d, ah, care to have dinner with me tonight?”

Was
that
what was making him nervous? He’d gone into a murder scene without hesitation, contacted the police as cool as glass and handled my meltdown with the finesse of a psychiatrist. And now this? Unbelievable.

I raked a hand through
my
hair. It didn’t matter. It had terminal frizzies.

“Well?” His mouth curved into a smile as if his confidence had suddenly flooded back.

“Sorry, Simon. I can’t.”

His eyes widened. “Why not?”

“I’m not ready.” So he’d understand, I added, “I may never be.”

“You think I’m asking for a date?”

“Yes, you…”

He shook his head. “No. Strictly business. I thought we could discuss my condo over dinner. You’ve been in my living room. And bedroom.” He treated himself to an all-out grin.

“True.” I eyed him with misgiving. He looked too calm, and men hate to be refused.

“The place needs a total makeover.”

Total makeover.
I must have been ready to go back to designing in earnest, for, music to my ears, his words sucked me in. “Has the kitchen ever been remodeled?”

“No.” He smirked as if a dumpy kitchen were a selling point.

“The bathrooms are the originals?”

“Right!” From his triumph, you’d think he’d put one over on me.

I meant what I said. I didn’t want to date anyone, Brooks Brothers or not. Yet I’ll admit his offer of a business dinner tempted me.

I hesitated, trying to decide what to do, and stuck my hands in my shorts pockets. My fingers brushed against Faye’s card. There was my answer. Faye had left me with too many puzzling questions about Treasure. If I could talk to her again, maybe she’d tell me something Lieutenant Rossi could use. Something Faye might keep from the police but would confide to a friend. It was worth a try. And Simon and I could talk condo redos at the same time.

“I choose the place.” I pretended not to notice a light leap into Simon’s eyes.

“Wherever you like.”

“Fine. Eight o’clock.”

“Pick you up at eight.” He gave me a mock salute and headed for his car. As he walked away, I called after him. “Hey, what’s your favorite color?”