Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

A half hour later I had fallen madly in love.

Francesco owned my dream house. One of those white-timbered James River designs from the Virginia Low Country. A gracious distance from the street, its slate roof shaded by giant live oaks draped with Spanish moss, the house nestled on its spacious lot like a baby in his mother’s arms.

I forgot all about my aches and bruises and hurriedly parked the Audi. The limo slowed to a stop ahead of me and Donny-The-Door-Opener hurried to do his thing.

“A fantastic property, Francesco,” I enthused as he climbed out of the back seat.

“You gotta see the inside,” he said.

“I can’t wait.”

While Donny slid behind the wheel and drew the limo onto the side driveway, Francesco removed a key from his pocket and strode up the brick walk. Julieta followed him, clattering along on gladiator sandals with five-inch heels that set off her super mini to perfection.

Heart pounding a little faster than normal, I brought up the rear. After a few moments of difficulty with the key and a muttered “Something else needs fixing,” Francesco unlocked the door and with a surprisingly gallant sweep of his arm said, “Have a look.”

I took a few steps into the foyer, glanced around and gasped. My dream house had turned into a nightmare. With my teeth on edge and the Grandeses trailing me, I silently toured all the empty, gaudy rooms. Every one had been painted a different high-gloss color. Pink, violet, orange, green, blue, yellow.

When we hit the lilac kitchen, I whirled around to Francesco. “Who did this?”

“The jerk I bought the place from,” he said, waving his arms. “Can you believe the guy? No taste. No class. It looks like a goddamn kindergarten in here.”

“I kind of like it,” Julieta offered.

“See what I mean?” Francesco asked me, shaking his head. “Two years in Rhode Island Junior College and for what? That’s why I tell her no comments.”

“Oh, Frannie,” she said and giggled.

Back in the living room, head whirling from the visual overload, I said, “I think I can guess what the previous owner had in mind. Just a theory but it seems to fit.”

“Yeah?” Francesco looked skeptical but ready to listen.

“The rooms are all painted in preppy colors.”

“Preppy?” Francesco’s brows meshed together.

“You know, the colors prep school grads wear.”

“I heard of them, but nobody on Federal Hill—that’s in Rhode Island,” he explained, “would be caught dead in them.”

“Everybody wears jeans there. Or black,” Jewels said. “Black doesn’t show the dirt. And it goes with everything.”

“Everything being your other pair of jeans,” Francesco retorted with a smirk.

“If you’re lucky,” Jewels added, looking serious all of a sudden.

“Well, anyway,” I said, bringing the conversation back to the house, “I don’t think these vivid colors are accidental.”

“What’s your point?” Francesco asked, looking like he really wanted to know.

“Whoever painted the walls this way may have been tying in to an old tradition.”

“Which is?”

“Royalty. Centuries ago noblemen used darker versions of these pinks and greens and blues on their shields and flags. Paints and dyes were luxuries, so the colors were a status symbol. A lot of people still believe certain colors are.” I turned to Julieta. “In clothes, think Lilly Pulitzer.”

“Who?”

But Francesco got the point. “So the previous owner thought he was tapping into a high-society look with this mess?”

I shrugged. “Just guessing, but could be. People still buy in to the preppy look. Especially on the East Coast.”

Francesco looked at me with a newfound respect. “The guy I bought the house from? He told me he went to Yale. Almost the first words out of his mouth.” He shook his head. “Go figure. It’s enough to make me gag.”

“Me too.” Francesco and I were on the same page. “No question, the interior is deplorable. But fixable. In fact, the house has tremendous potential,” I added, heading into designer mode—partly creative, partly psychological, one-hundred-percent sales pitch.

“I’m listening.”

“High ceilings, well-proportioned rooms, fabulous moldings, and a floor plan that
flows
. Paint errors are the easiest to correct. You could have a showstopper here.”

I meant it too. U-shaped, the house opened with a spacious central foyer that led to a living room and beyond to a terrace and pool. The right wing held a study with a working fireplace, a powder room and a master bedroom suite. The left wing a dining room, combined kitchen and family room and, in back of that, two guest bedrooms and baths.

This was my favorite layout in the whole world. Restoring it would be a labor of love as well as a risk. With a chauffeur who looked like a bouncer, and a wife who looked like a stripper, no telling what Francesco would want me to do with the place.

I blew out a breath and told myself to relax. He hated the current appearance of the house as much as I did, and had seen past its flaws to its hidden possibilities. And since when couldn’t I convince a client of the soundness of my ideas?
Right
.

“Francesco,” I said, “I’d love,
love
, to work on this house.”

“I thought so.”

So okay, he was a little lacking in the finesse department.

“How soon can you get started?”

Finesse wasn’t everything.

“Tomorrow. I work with an excellent painting contractor. Once these walls are a base white—and that may take more than one coat—it will be easier to make other decisions.” I cleared my throat. “What we do, of course, depends on your budget. New bathrooms and a new kitchen will add considerably to the cost. And then there are furnishings and accessories.”

“Money’s not a problem.”

“No,” chirped Jewels, looking happy about it. Who could blame her?

“I’ve already bought some stuff,” Francesco said.

Uh
-
oh
. “Stuff?”

“Yeah. Everything’s in storage. I got pictures I can show you.”

“Fine,” I lied. What on earth had he bought? Whatever it was, I’d probably have to work with it, or at worse, around it. My enthusiasm dimming a bit, I said, “I’ll have to let the painter in to measure the rooms and give me an estimate. In the meanwhile, I’ll draw up a layered proposal for what I believe needs to be done. For that, I—”

“No layers,” Francesco said. “Give me the top estimate. Go for broke. Kitchen, baths, the works. I’ll break the costs down myself.”

Before I could ask, he reached into his pocket and removed a key. “You’ll need this.”

“As soon as I have the painter’s estimate, I’ll fax it to you.”

Again, no need to ask, he reached into his jacket pocket, removed a business card with his thumb and a stubby forefinger and held it out to me.

The third reach into a pocket produced a silver money clip, very plain, very Tiffany. He peeled off a thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills and gave them to me. “To get you started. Who travels with checks anymore?”

“But you don’t know my hourly rate.”

He flashed me a toothy grin. “Whatever it is, you’re worth it.”

Men
.
Geesh
. I thanked him and tucked the money in my purse.

“Tell the painter guy not to waste any time. Call me when he’s done and have your proposal ready ASAP so I can see what you got in mind.” He snapped his fingers at Jewels. “Let’s go,” he said, heading for the door.

She teetered after him, her high-pitched voice floating behind her. “Frannie, you’re letting her paint all the walls white? The house’ll look like a refrigerator.”

“What did I tell you?” he said. “No comments.”

I followed them out, locked up and drove back to Fern Alley. How I missed Lee St. James, my wonderful shop assistant. Six months ago, when she and her husband left for New York, I hadn’t had the heart to look for a replacement. Though I needed to and soon. Closing shop midday was poor policy, but I clung to the hope Lee would return to Naples after her husband finished his stint at the Art Students League.

The painting contractor I gave all my business to, Tom Kruse—it sounded the same, but no, he wasn’t
the
Tom Cruise—answered on the first ring. “Good timing, Deva,” he said after I told him why I’d called. “I’m finishing up a job nearby, on Whiskey Lane. I’ll phone you tomorrow as soon as we’re through.”

Good. I’d have something positive to tell Francesco. And maybe by tomorrow I’d feel up to staying in the Rum Road house long enough to do some in-depth planning for that top-of-the-line proposal he wanted.

Now all
I
wanted was to sit still, not think, not move. I sat down at the
bureau
plat
and lay my head on the top. I must have dozed off. When the antique Yarmouthport bells on the shop door jangled, I came to with a start.

Jerking to attention, I sat up, pretending to be wide awake.

“Hi, welcome,” I murmured sleepily.

A slim young blonde in skin-tight jeans and a butterfly top hovered in the doorway. That hesitancy was familiar. Some people weren’t comfortable around interior designers, fearing they’d be talked into bizarre-looking rooms they didn’t want.

“Come in,” I urged.

She stepped inside and slowly approached the desk, her expression changing from uncertainty to shocked surprise. “You’ve been hurt?”

I nodded. “An accident.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t mention the explosion. Maybe she hadn’t heard about it, though if she lived in Naples it must be under a rock. “How may I help you?” I asked.

“I’m hoping you can find someone for me. A man, actually.”

“Well, I don’t know—”

“He came into your shop earlier today. I saw him”

Francesco
.

“His name is Francesco Grandese. Can you tell me how to reach him?” Her lower lip trembled, and she caught it with her teeth.

I shook my head. “Sorry, a client’s address is privileged information. But the police might be able to help.”

She shook her head so hard her hair whipped around her cheeks. “No, this isn’t a police matter. It’s personal.”

She bent over and rested her palms on the desktop, trapping me in place. “Please. This is important. He was staying at the Inn on Fifth. You know, the one across the street.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering how she’d found out. Had she been stalking him?

“But when I asked for Mr. Grandese, they told me he’d just checked out. Then I got lucky and saw him leave the hotel in a limo and drive to your shop. That took me by surprise. He’s usually in a Ferrari. But before I could get back with everything...” her voice trailed off, “...he was gone. And I’ve got to see him. It’s urgent.”

Whatever bothered this girl caused her voice to rise a little higher with every word. Speaking softly to give off calm vibes I didn’t feel, I said, “Why don’t you have a seat, miss, ah...?”

“Mimi.” She backed off, though I could tell she didn’t want to, and perched on the edge of the zebra settee across from my desk. “So can you help me?”

“What I can do is take your name and number and let my client know you’re trying to reach him.”

She half rose then thought better of it and slumped back. “No, that won’t work.”

The desperation in Mimi’s eyes made me uneasy. I pushed my chair away from the desk and stood. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Will you be seeing Francesco again?” she asked, ignoring the hint to leave.

Not wanting to lie, but worried about where this was heading, I gave her a noncommittal, “I may.”

“That will have to do. Be right back.”

She sprang off the settee and hurried out of the shop. I was tempted to lock the door behind her but didn’t. That was no way to run a business. Still, I felt so drained, I’d close up early and drop in at the hospital to see Chip while I still had the pep to do so. Before I could snap off the overheads, the Yarmouthport sleigh bells jingled again. Mimi walked in carrying a basket covered with a crocheted shawl and carefully placed it on the shop floor.

“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the basket.

“Something for Francesco. Tell him I’d like to keep it, but I can’t. It’s all his.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, but she hurried out of the shop, quietly closed the door behind her and ran down the alley.

Strange. I eyed the basket warily. Was this a joke? Or worse, something that would blow up in my face and destroy the shop and everything in it? I didn’t know whether to dash outside with my cell and call 911, or contact Rossi, or remove the shawl and see what it concealed. As I stood there trying to decide, the basket moved. It moved again. And yet again.

Frozen in place, as indecisive as ice, I nearly leaped out of my skin when a cry split the air. An unmistakable cry. An I-want-a-bottle cry. An I-want-a-diaper-change cry. An I-want-to-be-held-and-loved-and-cuddled cry.