Read The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) Online
Authors: Jean Harrington
The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design)
The Design is Murder
By Jean Harrington
Book five of Murders by Design
Interior designer Deva Dunne
should
be focusing her attention on buying a new home with Lt. Victor Rossi. But in typical Deva-style, she’s got her mind on everyone else’s abodes. Keeping her busy are her two newest clients, who have a lot in common. They both live on Whiskey Lane, and both were involved with the same woman. Coincidence or competition?
James Stahlman believes Stew Hawkins moved into the house across the street to terrorize him after he became engaged to Kay, Stew’s ex-wife. But Stew is over it. He’s remarried—and to someone much younger. When both women are found “accidentally” dead weeks apart, Deva thinks there’s something afoot on Whiskey Lane. Coincidence or murder?
Deva can’t stay away...as much as her protective fiancé would like her to. And it’s becoming clear that
someone
thinks Deva’s seen too much. With the list of suspects growing, and Deva and Rossi that much closer to becoming homeless—really, where
are
they going to live?—she’ll have to sift through the clues herself, or there’ll be no happily ever after.
71,000 words
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the November 2014 edition of the Dear Reader letter. This month, Carina Press and I share an anniversary: five years since we joined Harlequin! Harlequin has been an amazing home for both of us, showing support, enthusiasm and offering a team environment for both the business and for authors. I’m thrilled to have seen Carina Press and our authors grow to great success in sales, reviews, careers and awards in the five years since we opened our doors, and we believe things can only get better from here.
In honor of the holiday season, two authors bring us holiday novellas. First, in Shannon Stacey’s contemporary romance,
Her Holiday Man
, two people, both wounded by love in the past, are brought together by a widow, a child’s joy, and the spirit of Christmas. Later in the month, star-crossed lovers Gabe and Cat meet again at Christmas after five years apart—just a week before she’s set to marry another man, in the historical romance
A
Christmas Reunion
by Susanna Fraser.
Lauren Dane is back with the third installment in her urban fantasy series, and this one is more romantic than ever! Don’t miss Rowan and Clive in
Blade on the Hunt
.
As a follow-up to his incredibly popular romantic suspense
Fair Game
, male/male romance author Josh Lanyon brings us
Fair Play
, in which ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills must figure out who is willing to kill to keep his former ’60s radical father’s memoirs from being published.
In
Tempting the Player
by Kat Latham, a rugby player’s extreme fear of flying keeps his career from taking off—until a sexy pilot tempts him into her cockpit to help him overcome his phobia...of planes and commitment. Joining Kat in returning with a contemporary romance is Stacy Gail with
Where There’s a Will
, the much-anticipated story of Coe, who won reader’s hearts in
Starting from Scratch
. This is one hero who will steal your heart, all because of the milk!
Designed for Love
by Kelsey Browning is also in our contemporary romance lineup in November. A former Houston socialite is out to prove she’s more than a blonde bobblehead by managing a huge construction project. When an environmentalist mucks up Ashton’s plans, she must rely on the blue-collar contractor who can either help her build her dreams or crush them.
Last, but not least, of the fantastic contemporary romances is male/male romance
In the Fire
, the second part of the In the Kitchen duology by Nikka Michaels and Eileen Griffin. After spending the last eight years apart, chefs Ethan Martin and Jamie Lassiter have to decide whether to face the fire to get what they want or live a lifetime apart. Don’t miss the chemistry and emotional angst between Ethan and Jamie in this explosive duology.
Two murders in two mansions in two weeks—what’s going on in Naples’ most glamorous neighborhood? For cozy mystery fans, Jean Harrington’s Murders by Design series should not be missed. Pick up her newest release,
The Design Is Murder
, or catch up with
Designed for Death
,
The Monet Murders
,
Killer Kitchens
and
Rooms to Die For
.
This month we’re thrilled to welcome Edie Harris to our publishing team with Blood Money, her romantic suspense series that follows the lives and loves of a family of spies. In
Blamed
,
A
Blood Money Novel
, we meet the first of the siblings. Beth Faraday, a former assassin who wants nothing more than to stay retired, finds her new life turning anything but normal when sexy British spy and ghost from her past Raleigh Vick shows up in Chicago, determined to protect her from the bounty that’s been placed on her head.
Coming in December: Leah Braemel caps off her sexy cowboy romance trilogy, new author Caroline Kimberly is back with her sophomore historical romance, Michele Mannon concludes her knock-out MMA trilogy, and so much more!
Here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Editorial Director, Carina Press (Five years and counting!!)
Dedication
To each and every friend of Deva Dunne, whoever you are and wherever you may be.
Acknowledgments
To my legal guide and friend, Attorney Carolyn Alden; to handwriting analysts Andrea McNichol and M. N. Bunker, who was the founder of the International Graphoanalysis Society. To the
Naples Daily News
for its ongoing coverage of the python infestation now attacking the Florida Everglades; to Naples Detective Mike Haburjak of the Collier County Sheriff’s Office, Financial Crimes Bureau; to my steady and insightful critique partners and fellow writers, Brenda Pierce and Joyce Wells. And of course, to super editor Deborah Nemeth, who improves my manuscripts with unfailing patience and skill.
Also, although the State of Florida prison system does not provide a furniture construction program for inmates, other prison systems in the United States do, and this book borrows on that fact.
Contents
Chapter One
I slit the envelope with my Colonial pewter-handled
letter opener, slid out a thin sheet of lined paper and read,
To Mrs.
Deva Dunne
,
My name is Number 24601.
I’m also known as Mike Hammerjack
,
a
guest of Florida State Prison.
I’m in for embezzlement
,
10 to 20
,
with time off for good
behavior.
After a few detours you don’t want to hear about
,
I’m trying to do
my best.
That’s why I’m writing to ask a favor
,
not for me
,
for my
fellow inmates.
Like me
,
most of these guys don’t belong behind bars
,
but
that’s another story.
As a reward for cooperation
,
some of us work in
the carpenter shop
,
making custom-designed furniture—chairs
,
benches
,
tables
,
desks—mostly out of pine
,
in
different finishes.
Here’s where you come in.
Everything we make is up for sale at very reasonable prices
,
with
the money going to prisoners’ families.
Little kids
,
exes
,
etc.
I
read an article about you in
Design Magazine
and hope you can use our pieces
in some of your projects.
If you’re interested
,
contact Warden Bill Finney
here at Florida State
,
and he’ll send you pictures and info about
our products.
You won’t be sorry.
Sincerely yours
,
Mike Hammerjack
,
President
Help-a-Con Program
Written in a tight, crabbed hand with fancy flourishes, the
letter wasn’t easy to read, and I had to wade through the squiggles twice to
understand it. Despite the poor handwriting, the letter was obviously the work
of a focused person and, for some reason, I believed Number 24601 was sincere in
writing to me. Then again, I tend to root for the underdog. I’m from Boston
originally, and the Red Sox are my beleaguered team. Though they seldom make it
to the Series, I love them anyway. As for a guy in prison reaching out to help
his fellow cons, he deserved a break, didn’t he?
“Of course, he does, darlin’,” echoed in my head. Dear Nana
again, though she’d been gone for fifteen years now. “Help the lad, if you can.”
Gone but not silent.
I put the letter on my desk with a sigh. God only knew what
prison-made furniture looked like. Clumsy most likely. Knocked together by big,
rough hands. Still...
The Yarmouthport sleigh bells on the entrance of my interior
design shop suddenly did their job, jangling like mad as the door opened,
admitting a distinguished middle-aged gentleman. What else would you call a
silver-haired man cradling a Maltese puppy in his arms, and wearing a silk suit
and cravat on a hot July day in Southwest Florida?
I rose from behind my desk to greet him.
“Are you Ms. Dunne?” he asked without preamble.
“Yes, I’m Deva Dunne. How may I help you?”
He took a step forward and said, “Do forgive me for not
offering my hand, but Charlotte won’t let me put her down.” He caressed the
dog’s head. “Will you, dearest?”
The dog licked his fingers. I guess that was a no.
“She’s adorable,” I said, sort of meaning it. A tiny white
scrap of a pooch, Charlotte didn’t look like she’d ever heard of “paws on the
floor,” or “stay” or, perish the thought, “roll over.”
“I’m sure she’s easy to indulge, Mr....”
“Stahlman. James Stahlman.”
I gulped. Hard. His name wasn’t one easily forgotten, not after
being plastered all over the
Naples Daily News
for days on end. That
had been some months ago, yet the cloud hovering over him then still lingered.
Had he, or had he not, killed his wife?
Chapter Two
“I’m about to be married,” James Stahlman said. “As a surprise for my bride, I’m planning to give my house a fresh new look.”
“The entire house?”
“I don’t believe in half measures, Ms. Dunne.”
“I see.” Standing straighter—when I don’t slump, I’m five-six—I said, “May I ask where your property is located?” A rhetorical question. I knew. Whiskey Lane.
“I’m at 590 Whiskey Lane,” he said, stroking Charlotte softly. “I want you to see the house, and after that we can discuss any changes you deem appropriate. By the way, it may please you to know you come highly recommended.”
Well
,
you don’t
, I wanted to retort, but there I went again, jumping to conclusions. Mr. Stahlman hadn’t been convicted of murder, or if so, only in the court of public opinion. The official conclusion was that his wife, Marilyn, had accidentally drowned while cruising the barrier islands on her husband’s yacht.
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice politely noncommittal.
He seemed innocuous enough, standing in the middle of the shop, patting Charlotte’s topknot and taking care not to disturb her perky pink bow.
At the time of Marilyn Stahlman’s death, how such a champion swimmer could drown so mysteriously in the middle of the night had been the cause of much speculation. It still was and no wonder. Her body had never been found.
Anyway, I hoped what I was thinking didn’t show on my face.
Apparently not, for he said, “So shall we make an appointment for you to tour the house? How does tomorrow at two strike you?”
For the second time that morning, the sleigh bells jangled, and I glanced past Mr. Stahlman toward the front door. An unshaven teenager lurched in, his knees popping out of his jeans, his eyes popping out of his head.
I froze. A Beretta aimed at your face would do that to a person.
Finger shaking, I pointed toward the doorway. “Look!”
Mr. Stahlman swiveled around, spotted Bug Eyes and in his shock dropped Charlotte—
boom!—
to the floor, probably for the first time in her fluffy little life.
“Don’t move,” our intruder said. As if we could.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice as shaky as my knees. “I just opened up. There’s no money in here.”
“Quiet.” He waved the gun at Mr. Stahlman. “Drop your wallet on the floor. Then slide it over to me. No fast moves.”
James Stahlman reached inside his breast pocket and slowly withdrew a leather billfold. Bending down, he placed it on the floor, and with the toe of his polished loafer sent it sliding across the room.
To Charlotte, that meant party time. As the wallet skittered across the floorboards, she pounced, grabbed the leather in her teeth and, happy with her new toy, scampered around the shop, dodging between chair legs and swooping under the round table skirts.
The mugger followed the dog with his doped-up eyes and the muzzle of his gun. “Get the damned wallet, fast, or I’ll kill that mutt.”
“Mutt!” The word tore from James Stahlman’s lips. Finding the insult too grievous to ignore, he drew himself erect. “She came in second in the Westminster Dog Show.”
“Who gives a shit?”
As the Beretta ominously followed Charlotte’s
every move, the morning sun glanced off the dull barrel.
Dull?
Ah! The gun was a plastic fake. Mr. Tough Guy Mugger was playing Cops and Robbers. He wasn’t even armed. I was sure of it—well, pretty darned sure. My father had been one of Boston’s finest and taught me everything he knew about weaponry. But the price of a mistake could be fatal. While I tried to decide what to do, Charlotte did the deciding for me.
The mugger approached her, gun cocked and aimed. She took one look at him and dropped the wallet. A five-pound ball of fluff with the body of a crumpet and the heart of a lion, she leaped for his hand and sank her perfect little teeth into it.
He howled, and with Charlotte clinging to his flesh, he raised his arm. Swinging her around like a furry slingshot, he flung her through the air. She sailed across the shop, landing with a squeal on the zebra settee, a dazed expression on her face, her bow at a nutty angle.
Forgetting all danger to himself or to me either, Stahlman rushed to his darling and picked her up, murmuring sweet nothings into her ears.
Our mugger grabbed the wallet where the dog had dropped it, flipped it open and removed what looked like a hefty wad of cash. He threw the raided billfold on the floor, and with a final menacing wave of his pistol, yanked open the front door and disappeared down the alley to a rousing chorus of sleigh bells.
“My brave girl,” Stahlman said. “My dear, brave girl.”
He sure wasn’t speaking to me, but that was all right. Charlotte had been terrific and deserved the praise. All I’d done was stand frozen in uncertainty. Now that the danger was over, I thawed and sprang into action.
“I’m calling the police.”
“No! No police.”
Cell phone in hand, I stared at him, dismayed. “You’re kidding me.”
“Not at all, Ms. Dunne.”
“Actually it’s Mrs., but after what we’ve just been through together, do call me Deva.”
“Of course.” He stroked Charlotte’s fur and kissed her yet again. “And I’m James. But no police, Deva.”
The phone clutched in my sweaty palm, I said, “Why not, for heaven sake? You’ve been robbed.”
Cradling Charlotte in one hand, he bent over to pick up his wallet.
“Don’t touch that,” I yelled. “Fingerprints!”
Despite my warning, he pocketed the billfold.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I said. You’ve just destroyed evidence.”
“The money is negligible. My important papers are intact. That’s what matters.”
“But—”
He held up a single finger for silence, so I put the phone down on the sales desk, and without saying any more, waited for his reasoning.
He cleared his throat. “I’m assuming you read the local newspaper.”
“Every day. As a small business owner, I have to. It keeps me informed as to what’s going on locally.”
“Then you probably know of my wife’s unfortunate accident. It happened nearly a year ago...the publicity was relentless.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“The problem, Mrs....ah, Deva...is that
everyone
remembers. The last thing I want is more adverse publicity.”
“But you were the victim here.”
“No matter. The story will read badly in the media. I don’t want that spotlight trained on me ever again.” He shuddered and straightened Charlotte’s bow. Gave her back her dignity. Then with a frown, he glanced up at me. “Do you understand how I feel?”
“I do,” I said, trying not to sigh.
There goes a plum client.
“Your wishes are important to me, James, but in this I’m afraid I can’t please you.” I waved an arm at the door. “That’s open to the general public every day. Suppose the thief returns?”
“Hmm.” James sniffed. “I see your point. Very well, do what you must, but I won’t stay to be interrogated. If need be, the police will know where to find me.”
He was so clearly distressed, I semi-caved. “Tell you what. A friend of mine, Lieutenant Rossi, is a Naples detective. I’ll call him first. If he can keep this incident out of the media, he will.”
James smiled, revealing teeth that were long and yellowed but in excellent repair. “I appreciate that.” He reached into his breast pocket and, fumbling past his raped wallet, he retrieved a business card and held it out to me. “Until tomorrow then. As I said earlier, before our, ah...adventure...I’m getting married soon. My first wife would have wanted a new life for me. Marilyn would have as well. I’m certain of it.”
I must have forgotten some of the details in the newspaper reports, but with his reminder, they flowed back like a tsunami. Marilyn Stahlman, who disappeared at sea a year ago, wasn’t James’s first wife. But like the first one, she too had died an untimely death under mysterious circumstances.
