The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) (10 page)

He also went to have a look at the accident site. With my car towed away for repairs and Tony’s truck gone as well, I didn’t see what good it would do.

I should have known Rossi wouldn’t waste his time. Ten minutes later, he returned to my condo looking none too happy.

“The skid marks from that truck are facing in toward the building, not out toward the street. Where the hell did Hammerjack think he was going? There’s no way out of the lot in the direction he was headed. I don’t believe in accidents, Deva. I think the guy may have rammed you on purpose.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Still flat out on the sofa, I answered Rossi’s questions as best I could and watched his face go from grim to grimmer. After serving me a bowl of canned chicken soup, he was determined to find out exactly what had happened and left for Whiskey Lane, to pay a call on Mike at the Hawkins house. And, I suspected, to scare the daylights out of him while he was at it.

I dozed for a while and awoke with the late afternoon sun streaming through my windows. Restored by the nap, I risked getting off the couch to freshen up. My head ached, but the dizziness had disappeared. The knee was another story. It throbbed as badly as earlier. I hobbled out to the kitchen, put the thawed ice pack in the freezer and took out a bag of frozen peas—Rossi hated them anyway—to lay on the knee.

On the way back to the couch, I plucked my tote off a club chair. At least I could make a few calls and not waste the entire day.

Lee assured me all was well at the shop, which made me feel happy and obsolete at the same time. Actually gratitude quickly took over. I was lucky to have someone as reliable and capable as Lee helping me run the business. She deserved to be rewarded for all she did, and the same thought I’d had for a while popped up again: I should offer her a partnership in the business. A junior partnership to begin with and gradually as her design skills grew, make her a full partner with a client list of her own. Then we could hire someone to work on the floor and keep the shop...Dunne & St. James Interiors...open without interruption. It was a good idea, one that lifted my spirits.

They stayed elated, too, until I called You’ve Been Framed and spoke to Jane Walsh.

“Naomi’s not in today,” she said, “and I don’t know whether she’ll return.”

“How is she, Jane, really? I’m worried about her. She didn’t look well the other day.”

Jane cleared her throat as if weighing what she could or couldn’t tell me, then came out with a shocker: “She’s been given six months.”

“Oh.” I slumped farther down on the sofa. The peas fell off my knee, but I didn’t care. “I’m so sorry. Her lungs?”

“Yes. She said if you called to tell you she wants to talk about some letters of yours. Said it was important. Wait a minute, I have her home phone number around here somewhere.” A thump as the phone hit the desk.

While she searched, I scrambled in my tote for a pen and a scrap of paper. She came back on the line, gave me the number and said, “Mum’s the word on the six months, okay?”

“I won’t say a thing, I promise. Thanks for trusting me with the truth.”

“No problem.” Except, of course, there was.

I took a deep, reinforcing gulp of air and rang Naomi’s number.

Instead of a hello, she answered with a cough.

“Hi, girlfriend,” I said, when she caught her breath.

“Deva?” she asked, her voice a raspy whisper.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad you called. I mailed those Hammerjack letters back to you along with twenty bucks. You paid me too much.”

“No, I didn’t. You deserved every penny.” Another racking cough. “You feel like talking about what you found? If not, it’ll wait.”

“No it won’t. You’ve got quite a dude there, Deva. Oh, he’s charming, all right, but not to be trusted. I wanted you to know—” she stopped to draw in a ragged breath, “—before something happened.”

“Well, something has.”

“Yeah? Not surprising. I saw the prison address, but that’s not what alerted me. When you get his letters, look at his signature. It’s a mile high in comparison with the rest of his writing. You’ll see a lot of fancy swirls around the
M
in Mike. That’s self-importance, or you can call it an inflated ego. Either way, nothing illegal about it. But take a look at how he writes his y’s and g’s. The guy uses the felon’s claw.”

“The felon’s claw? What on earth is that?”

“It’s coming from a downstroke and immediately going into a claw shape below the line. It’s underhanded, goes against the norm.”

I could tell she was sucking in the air trying to get a full breath.

She mustn’t have succeeded, for she said, “There’s more, but not today. I’m done. Gotta get to my oxygen tank.”

“Thanks a million. You’ve helped me more than you know. And as soon as I get the letters, I’m sending back the twenty.”

“Don’t bother,” she rasped. “If you do, I’ll use it to light a cigar.”

My turn to gasp. “You smoke them, too!”

“Only when forced to.
Ciao.
”

She hung up wheezing and laughing, but I hung up saddened and troubled. Saddened about Naomi and troubled about Mike Hammerjack. Now that I had some insight into his character, what in the world was I supposed to do about it?

Chapter Twenty-Four

I was still mulling over the Mike Hammerjack problem when Rossi walked in. It was early evening by then, and he carried a frozen pizza and a bottle of Chianti. Dinner. Oh well, his pizza was better than his scrambled eggs, and I really wasn’t hungry anyway.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, eyeing me from head to toe and frowning.

“As you see.”

“I thought so. What’s with the peas?”

“You freeze them and put them on your knee.”

“So that’s the reason people grow them?”

“Exactly.”

“Seriously, you okay?”

“Well enough.”

“Not true. I can see your freckles. That’s never a good sign.”

Freckles.
Something else to worry about.
“How about you put the pizza in the kitchen and then tell me what happened with Mike?”

“You got it. Be right back.” He returned in a few minutes with two glasses of wine, handed me one, and settled into a club chair across from the sofa.

“So?” I said.

“So, you could say I wasted my time,” he began.

“Really? That surprises me. You never do.”

He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Thank you. However, this was an exception to my otherwise perfect record. The guy’s slick as they come. Claims his foot slipped off the brake, his driving’s rusty, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t believe a word he said, but there’s no way to disprove his story, so that’s that. Luckily the owner of the truck, this Tony Pavlich, carries insurance. So repairs to your car should be covered, and we can pick up a loaner in the morning.”

What he wasn’t saying was how much he regretted selling the Maserati. We were down to one set of wheels—the Mustang of voting age. Not good.

“Regrets?” I asked softly.

“Yes!”

About to take a sip of Chianti, I lowered my glass.

“I deeply regret your tangling with this Hammerjack character. Promise me you’ll have nothing more to do with him.”

“But—”

“He had no business being at your door. That alone scares me, never mind this phony accident.”

“I’d love to do as you ask, Rossi, but I said I’d try to sell some of the prison furniture. Not for Mike, for people in need. I have to follow through on my word.”

“You don’t
have
to, you want to.”

The sofa suddenly felt like a hot seat. As if my pants were on fire, I squirmed before answering. “I need to. That means I have to.”

He sighed, one of those deep, I’m-annoyed-beyond-words type of sighs. “You’re being incredibly naïve. You’ll be selling the work of murderers, pimps, thieves, wife-beaters, addicts. The list goes on.”

I took a good stiff slug of wine. “Just so you’ll know, the furniture they make is excellent. Besides, my grandmother wants me to do what I can in the name of humanity.”

“This the Nana Kennedy who passed fifteen years ago?”

“The very same.”

“I give up,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. Thank God his glass was empty. “Who can argue with logic like that?” He eased out of the club chair. “I’ll put the pizza in the oven.”

“That’s all you have to say? You’re not going to try and talk me out of it?”

“Nope. Do what you must. Besides, I told Hammerjack if he caused you any more trouble, I’d personally see that he went back to State. For good.” A small smile lifted Rossi’s lips. “Even if I had to invent the evidence.”

I nearly dropped my glass. “You
didn’t!
”

“Damn right I did. I won’t act on the threat, of course, but Hammerjack doesn’t know that. Not for sure.” Halfway to the kitchen, he swiveled around to face me. “I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

Wow. The man of integrity had lied. For me. My elation at being loved so much quickly turned to guilt. Once more I’d caused a problem for Rossi, but this time I’d placed him on the horns of a moral dilemma, and that made me feel terrible.

His evaluation of Mike Hammerjack was most likely correct, but if I told him my phone conversation with Naomi tended to verify his findings, that would only disturb him all the more. So I’d keep what I learned to myself and be extremely wary around my Help-a-Con contact. Bottom line, I didn’t want to believe that when Mike crashed into the Audi, he meant to harm me. Or maybe even kill me.

Chapter Twenty-Five

My concern about Mike and his motives took a back seat the next day when James Stahlman dropped into the shop with Charlotte in tow. I’d just settled down behind my desk with a cushion under my sore knee when in he came.

To my delight, Charlotte wriggled out of his arms and scampered over to me, licking my ankles and woofing her head off.

“Are we friends?” I asked, picking her up. A lick on the cheek erased the question and most of my Tropic-Glo blush. I took that as a yes.

“I’m so glad we caught you in,” James said. “We’re on our way to Klaus and Hartmann to select a new suit for the wedding. While we’re in the neighborhood, I thought I’d better stop by and alert you.”

Uh-oh.
“Alert me about what?” I put Charlotte down in case James’s answer caused me to tense up and grip her too tightly.

“Kay and I are tired of waiting.”
Just like the guys in the state pen.
“Last night we decided to stop all these postponements and set a date. It’s etched in stone, Deva,” he said, his voice stern of a sudden. “Two weeks from today.”

“Well, congratu—”

“We’re getting married in the house.”

“
Your
house? The one with painters swarming all over the inside?”

His pale eyes rounded. “What other house could I be referring to?”

His question required no response, but I gave him one anyway. A groan. “I can’t possibly have the house ready for a wedding. Not in two short weeks.”

“Of course you can, and you will. I insist.” He reached into the breast pocket of his double-breasted linen jacket, removed a check and laid it on my desk. “In anticipation of your objections,” he said with a smile. A smile of supreme confidence, as if he were convinced money solved all problems.

I sighed and then my peripheral vision spotted the amount on the check face. A hefty five figures. Well, money didn’t solve everything, but this money would help to swell the Rossi-Dunne building fund.

I picked up the check and, tapping it with a thumbnail, stared at James with what I hoped were steely eyes. “Say I agree to your time constraint. It will have to be with the understanding that every detail won’t be in place on your wedding day. The tradespeople and workrooms have other clients to consider, other orders to complete. All I can do, with or without this check—” which I was holding onto tightly, “—is my best.”

“That will more than suffice. I trust you completely,” James said. “Please send any further bills to my financial advisor. This is his address.” He placed a business card on my desk and then snapped his fingers at Charlotte. “Come here immediately, young lady.”

Woof!

“I insist.”

To her credit, Charlotte ignored him and kept right on sniffing the table skirts, especially the one topped with a display of aromatherapy candles. Then, bored with that, tail on high, and not letting James intimidate her for a second, she disappeared around the corner to explore the back storeroom. I felt like clapping. Or making her an honorary member of NOW.

As for me, I wasn’t quite so independent. I put James’s check in a desk drawer for safekeeping and stood, not without difficulty, to shake his hand. After which he chased Charlotte all over the place, finally managing to nab her in a corner. “Naughty girl,” he said, kissing her.

“One thing puzzles me, James,” I said as he was about to leave.

“Yes?”

“Since the house is undergoing a rehab, wouldn’t it be simpler for you and Kay to be married elsewhere?”

“Simpler yes, but not as satisfying.”

Ah! How could I have forgotten? Having the wedding at 590 directly across the street from 595 meant that they could marry and torment Stew Hawkins at one and the same time. Not nice. Not nice at all.

After James left, I took another peek at the check. It was real, all right, with a tidy Palmer Method signature and big clear numbers. I was no Naomi when it came to handwriting, but I sure did like what I saw, especially those numbers. So why did I feel as if I were aiding and abetting a crime? All I was doing was my job. Wasn’t I?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Whether or not James and Kay wanted some kind of revenge against Stew Hawkins, I convinced myself their private feud had nothing to do with me or my role as interior designer. Anyway that sounded good to my conscience.

So I tamped down my guilt, and as soon as Lee returned from the bank with a supply of petty cash, I left for the Stahlman house. My knee, hugged by an ace bandage, had slowed me down but not knocked me out. Which was a good thing. For no way could I let the windfall from James slip through my fingers.

At Whiskey Lane, two identical panel trucks sat in each driveway, and without checking I knew that true to his promise, Tom Kruse would have the same number of uniformed men working in each house. About to suggest we break that rule, I walked in to 590 feeling a tad foolish.

In the living room, the odor of wet paint permeated the air, an odor many people objected to but that I loved for the way it signaled fresh, new beginnings. Rocking to whatever his iPod was pumping into his ears, a lanky young guy was busy painting the ceiling. I caught his attention and pointed to my own ear. He removed the buds. “Is Tom around?” I asked.

“He was working in the master bedroom earlier.”

I found him there and greeted him with, “We have a problem.”

He rested his brush across the top of a paint can. “What’s wrong?”

“James and the bikini are getting married.”

“That’s a problem?” Tom shot me a grin. Ah, the power of a well-filled flag.

“The wedding’s in two weeks.”

“Umm-hmm.” He bent to pick up his brush.

“In this house.”

His jaw dropped and so did the brush. “Oh God, no.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Well, I’ll tell you right now, I can’t finish this job in two weeks.” He waved an arm at the dated wall covering. “Not with all that paper to be stripped off. No telling what’s underneath it. And some of the rooms need three coats of paint.”

“Okay, how about this? The bedrooms stay as is until after the ceremony. The kitchen too. That leaves the living and dining rooms, the foyer, den and library.”

“Even so...”

I pointed to his brush. Paint was dripping onto the floor. A first, I’d bet, for perfectionist Tom. He grabbed the brush with an oath. Another first.

“Suppose we hire a temporary crew?”

Tom shook his head. “No dice, Deva. That’s how you lose quality control. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

“You’re right. So do I.”
Back to Plan A.
“How about taking your men out of 595 and putting them to work over here? Would that help?”

“It might. If we work through the weekend.” He pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wiped up the drips. “That means time and a half for the men.”

“I’d be willing to double their hourly rate providing they finish in twelve days. Mr. Stahlman gave us two weeks, but I’ll need at least two days to put the rooms back in order after you’re through.”

With Tom’s promise to do his valiant best to meet the timetable, I limped across the street. If Stew refused my request, I could kiss James’s check goodbye, and I really couldn’t afford to do that. Or to lose Stew as a client either.

My knee throbbing and my heart beating faster than normal, I rang Hawkins’s bell. The moment the chimes pealed, Teresa yanked open the door, her face falling at the sight of me. Without saying hello, she peered over my shoulder as if hoping someone else might be coming along the walk. “They’re late. They should be here by now.”

“Who?”

“The exterminators.”

Small critters were a problem in southwest Florida where everything, including
la cucaracha
, thrived in the heat and humidity. So the bug men, as exterminators were affectionately known, made regular calls at almost every building in town.

But this was different. In jeans, a washed-out T-shirt and no makeup, Teresa looked too scared to have had an encounter with a mere water bug or two.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“A snake.” She hissed out the word.

Another python?
“Omigod. Where?”

“In my kitchen. Under the sink.” She shuddered. “I slammed the cabinet shut and trapped him inside. Nothing can make me go back out there.”

“I don’t blame you. Not a bit.” As she peered up and down the street, I glanced past her, into the living room. Tom’s crew was applying a coat of desert sand latex to the walls. Even partially finished, the room had taken on a masculine vibe that would suit Stew’s personality to a T.

“Is Mr. Hawkins at home by any chance? I need to speak to him,” I said.

Teresa shook her head, sending her ragged ponytail into a little dance. “No, he’s out of town. At a convention. Of all the times, just when we’re infested with snakes.”

“Oh, surely not.”

“What do you know? You didn’t see it.” She shivered. “I can’t stay here, I’m too afraid. But I don’t know what else to do. I have no other place to go.”

“Can you reach Stew?”

“
Sí.
I mean yes. He left a number in New York. I called him there. But he hasn’t called back.”

“I hope he does. I have a problem too.”

“Not like mine. Mine is worse.”

Arguable, but I never got to debate the subject with her, for an exterminator’s truck pulled onto the driveway, and two men in coveralls jumped out of the cab.

Teresa raced outside to embrace—I mean meet—them. As she was relating her woes, the living room phone rang. I did debate answering that—for a second or two—then made a dash for the receiver.

I was in luck. It was Stew.

“Who’s this?” he barked.

“It’s Deva Dunne.”

“What the hell’s wrong with Teresa? She sounded half nuts on the phone. Something about snakes.”

“Well, uh, she says the house is infested with them.”

“That’s crazy.”

“She doesn’t seem to think so. She’s out on the driveway right now, speaking to the exterminators.”

“Dammit, I leave for a few days and all hell breaks loose.”

“She’s scared, Stew. Afraid to stay here in the house. Says she has no place else to go.”

A sigh wove its way through the line followed by a long moment of silence. “Okay,” he said finally, “I’m glad you’re there, Deva. Do me a favor, will you? Stay with her while she packs some clothes. Buy her a one-way ticket to LaGuardia and give her some cab fare to my hotel. Put everything on my tab. And give the exterminators a key. Tell them to do whatever it takes. Then lock up the house.”

“What about the painters?”

“Oh for crying out loud, I forgot about them.” Another sigh. “Tell you what. Put a halt to all that decorating stuff until I get back. We have to get the house fumigated first. What good’s a fancy redo if my girlfriend...housekeeper...won’t spend a night in the place?”