The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) (18 page)

Chapter Forty-Two

The best-laid plans of mice and men often go belly up. No surprise there, and this time not even a hint of trouble. Actually, the morning was glorious, filled with sunshine and the scent of the sea. The breeze blew humid, of course, but that was no reason not to smile in a world that was so beautiful. Worry would do no good—it never did—and besides, I had work waiting and calls to make. Particularly one to Mike Hammerjack.

At the door to the shop, our postal delivery woman handed me a stack of envelopes, probably all bills and ads, though on the top of the pile sat a lavender envelope addressed to me in a small, neat hand.

I carried the mail inside, dropped it on my desk and picked up the letter. The postmark was too smudged to be legible, and there was no return address on the back.
Hmm.
Curious, I slit the envelope open and removed a sheet of lilac-scented paper written in the same neat handwriting as on the envelope.

Dear Mrs.
Dunne
,

Thank you so much for sending me the notebook of my beloved lost daughter
,
Connie Rae Hawkins.
She was the dearest thing in my life and having her words to read over and over is a priceless gift.
How sad that her new husband couldn’t get her to a heart surgeon in time to save her life.
I
know he intended to.
He told me so himself...

The rest of the words were a blur. In my hands, on this piece of lavender paper, was a written testimony that Stew had known about Connie Rae’s condition.

When my initial shock ebbed, I read the letter a second time. Connie Rae’s mother sounded like a thoughtful, giving person. Despite her grief, she had reached out to thank me for a very pathetic little gift.

Trying to remember everything Naomi had told me about graphology, I studied the handwriting. All I could see was sweetness in the rounded letters and sincerity in the lack of flourishes, and yes, sorrow in the droop of the final strokes. Though I’d be the first to admit my graphology skills were limited, I believed the woman was telling the truth about Stew. He’d known all along about his wife’s life-threatening condition and had denied knowing it both to the police and to me. The question was why?

I slid the letter back in its envelope and placed it in my desk drawer for safekeeping. Straight ahead through the front window, a bougainvillea the color of heart’s blood cascaded over the facing wall. Basking in the sun’s warmth, full of life and energy, it lifted its petals to the sky. The sight made me want to weep.

Kay’s death had been tragic, no question about that, but in the chaos that ensued, little Connie Rae had been all but forgotten. Though the shop was warm—I needed to turn down the air conditioning—a chill shot through me. Two women living mere yards apart had died within days of each other. And at one point in both their lives, Stew Hawkins had been their husband.

Hmm.
I jabbed the letter opener under the flap on one of the bills...so James wasn’t the only husband whose recent behavior raised questions. Maybe Rossi’s investigation should expand to include Stew. True, Connie Rae’s death had been declared the result of natural causes, but somehow Stew’s lie continued to raise hackles of doubt in my mind.

I glanced at the electric bill—too high—and tossed it on the desk.

Two women, two prime suspects, two unrelated deaths.

I pitched the phone bill on top of the electric bill.

Or were the deaths related in some way?

The Yarmouthport bells jangled and, head spinning, I rose to greet Lee. Fresh and lovely in a snug blue top with a white accordion-pleated skirt fluttering around her legs, she was bubbling over with anticipation. “Only four more days till moving day, Deva.”

“I know,” I said, smiling, trying to match her mood.

As she stowed her bag behind the sales desk, she said, “Hasn’t everything worked out perfectly for us all? Paulo and I get to buy your beautiful condo. And until your dream house is finished, you and the lieutenant have his place to live in. Things couldn’t be better if we’d planned them this way.”

“Right.” I loved seeing her happiness and knowing I’d played a small part in creating it. What did sleeping in my car matter compared to that? At least that was what I told myself. Not helping Rossi with the apartment hunt hadn’t helped the situation. And in fairness, I needed to. Trouble was, every day lately had been chewed up with one crisis after another. Well, today I’d make a point of checking out the listings in the
Naples Daily News
, and this afternoon I’d...

Our first walk-in customer of the day rattled the bells on the door. Lee strolled over to greet her, and I hit the phone.

First Mike Hammerjack. Then I’d confirm today’s meeting with the “blah” family room client, and after that call Rossi. No, on second thought I’d wait until we were together to tell him about the lavender letter. He had enough to deal with for now, what with the demands of his job and contacting realtors all over town.

Mike’s phone rang and rang, but he didn’t pick up. Either he was too busy to answer or was having trouble fishing his cell out of the tight shorts he wore on the job.

Finally, as I was about to hang up, a gruff, “Yeah,” barked across the line.

“Mike, this is Deva Dunne.”

“Hey, designer lady,” he said, his voice changing so much it was as if he’d handed his phone to somebody else.

“I’m ready to place a furniture order and need a contact name and number at State.”

“For you, anything,” he said, his voice dropping into a lower, sexier register. “I’ve got that info out in the truck.”

A crash loud enough to jar my eardrum rocketed through the line. “What was
that?
”

“That was Tony. We’re into demolition over here. Getting rid of the pink tile you wanted out. Look, can I call you back? I’ve gotta go.”

Another crash and the phone went dead.

Pink tile. That had to be Stew’s place.

Twenty minutes later, I found the girly pink tiles in a shattered heap on the master bathroom floor and Tony and Mike covered in plaster dust.

“Whoa!” Mike said when I walked in unannounced.

“Did I startle you?” I asked.

“My heart’s flipping over is all.”

“Sorry. The housekeep...ah, Teresa...didn’t answer the doorbell.”

“That’d be tough,” Mike said with a grin. “She’s in Puerto Rico.”

My jaw dropped open. “For good?”

“Nah. Mr. Hawkins said she went to show her family a rock. Whatever that means.”

Mike sounded like he really didn’t know. I guess the education at State wasn’t too thorough.

I looked around the torn-up room. “As long as you’re into demolition, you want to complete the job? Take out the vanity, the mirrors, the toilet, the tub? Everything down to the studs?”

Seeing Tony’s question coming, I quickly said, “Add the extra cost to your total.”

He glanced around the space, frowning. “The tub’s a problem. We’ll have to break it up to get it out of here. That’ll chew up another day.”

“Whatever it takes, Tony.”

He gave his jeans a hitch and nodded. “Okay. You’re the boss.”

“Have the new tiles arrived?”

“Yeah, they’re out in the truck.”

“I’d like to take a look at them. Make sure they’re the warm sand color I ordered. I need to see that decorative frieze too...and how about that number, Mike?”

“Come out to the truck and—”

Mike got no further. The wail of a siren shattered the neighborhood’s calm. Louder and louder, the siren screeched along Whiskey Lane, then came to a halt right outside the house.

“No one’s at home here, right?” I asked.

“Nobody,” Mike said.

I ran for the front entrance as fast as my high-heeled slides would allow and yanked the door open.

An EMS vehicle, lights flashing, rear doors open, was parked in front of 590.

Omigod. What now?

I dashed across the street. The front door of the Stahlman house stood ajar. I pushed it open and walked into the foyer. Low-pitched male voices and lighter female tones came from the direction of the master suite. The woman was most likely Eileen. So chances were she wasn’t the one needing emergency treatment. That left only James then, but what on earth had happened to him?

A nervous wreck, but not wanting to interrupt the medics, I paced the living room, trying to work off my tension. As I strode back and forth, heels clicking on the bare hardwood floor, it finally dawned on me that the room looked beautiful. Tom’s painters had done a wonderful job. Like a crisp bright day washed clean by rain, the empty room stood clean and bright waiting for its new furnishings, waiting to be enjoyed. I sighed, wondering what the odds were of that ever happening.

I wandered into the dining room. Yesterday when Marilyn and I were dealing with Eileen’s crisis, the men had finished the papering. I lit the crystal chandelier suspended from the center of the ceiling. In its light, the coral-toned wallpaper glowed soft and warm. At night, punctuated here and there with silvery birds of paradise, it would flatter every woman seated for dinner. Add James’s collection of silver hollowware and the room would be a...

Voices coming closer drew me back to the foyer. Eileen in her signature white uniform, her hair pulled back in its usual tidy bun, led the way. Behind her, the same medics I remembered from two days ago pushed a gurney toward the front door. Stretched out on top was none other than James, his face deathly white, his lips blue.

When Eileen saw me, a moment of confused surprise crossed her face.

“Mrs. Dunne? We didn’t expect you today. We have a problem. We...” Her voice trailed off.

“What happened?” I whispered.

“James...Mr. Stahlman has had—”

One of the medics nodded at me and said to Eileen, “We’re taking him to the Naples Community Hospital. If you go to the emergency room, they’ll direct you from there.”

“Is he...is he...” Eileen couldn’t bring herself to ask the question.

“We’ve stabilized him, ma’am. He’ll be in good hands.”

We followed the medics to the front door and watched as they wheeled James out to the waiting ambulance. I glanced across the street. Tony and Mike must have gone back to their demolition. The tile truck still sat in the driveway at 595, but they were nowhere in sight.

“I have to get to the hospital,” Eileen said, tears wetting her blue eyes. If anything happens to him...” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.

“You heard the medic, Eileen. James is in good hands. That sounds very positive to me.”

She nodded, found a tissue in her uniform pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I owe you an apology for yesterday. I’m so sorry. And so ashamed.”

“You’ve been through a lot, Eileen. If you were upset, that’s understandable. Anybody would be.”

“I wasn’t upset, I was drunk.”

“Well...”

“It’s the truth.” Her chin quivering, she glanced over at me. “I don’t remember how much I said, but whatever it was, I hope you’ll ignore it.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Eileen. My lips are sealed.”

“Oooh.” Her voice rose into a wail. “Then I
did
say too much.”

“No, no,” I said, hurrying to reassure her. “Only that you were leaving. So I’m glad to see you’re still here.”

“
Leaving?
” Her brow furrowed. “I would never leave James. He needs me.”

“Absolutely. He won’t want to come home to an empty house.”

“No.” Eileen’s soft, plump jaw hardened. “The minute that woman walked in this morning, I knew she meant trouble.”

“What woman?”

“Marilyn, of course. She gave James a heart attack.”

“But that’s not—”

“You should have heard her. It was awful. Do you know what she accused him of?”

I had a pretty good idea, but I shook my head.

“She told him he was a thief. That he wanted Kay dead so he could steal her money. Imagine, accusing James...Mr. Stahlman...of something like that.” Eileen sniffled, but her eyes were dry. “She didn’t even have the decency to wait for the ambulance to get here. The nerve of her. She’s a vicious woman.” Eileen straightened her shoulders. “A...a...bitch.”

I guess she found swearing tougher when she was sober.

She glanced out the front entrance, but the ambulance was long gone. “I have to follow them.”

Moving faster than I thought she could—chalk one up for sensible oxfords—she dashed through the house, returning with a tan leatherette purse slung across her body and a key chain in her hand.

“Will you lock up, Mrs. Dunne?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply she was out the door and on her way to the garage.

My “Certainly” drifted unheard on the warm summer air. Eileen had already disappeared around the front of the house.

A moment later a car roared to life, backed out of the driveway, braked, straightened, and with a screech that made my teeth clench, laid rubber halfway down Whiskey Lane.

Good grief. I hoped there wouldn’t be another death in the family, so to speak.

The family, such as it was, had had a full measure of sorrow...and now to think that James had been stricken. Was Eileen right? Had Marilyn’s accusation caused his collapse? If so, there had to be a reason. Outrage at the injustice of what she said, or guilt at its truth. Either way, James was fighting for his life, and at least one person in the world wanted him to survive. For her sake above all, I prayed he would too.

Alone in the house, I wandered out to the kitchen, every step echoing in the empty rooms. The kitchen was as neat as ever, all evidence of yesterday’s debauch erased as if it had never occurred.

I shot the bolt on the back door, the sharp noise in the silence of the house an eerie reminder that I was alone. A pang of unease slid through me. Despite its lovely potential, the house had been witness to strange happenings recently, including a murder. Goosebumps erupted on my skin; I suddenly needed to get out of there and fast.

Woof.

Charlotte’s rough little tongue licked my ankles. So I wasn’t alone after all.

“Hi, girlfriend,” I said, scooping her up. Glad to see her, I smooched the top of her head next to her red, white and blue bow. The bow was either a homage to the Fourth of July or part of a mother and daughter outfit. Since neither one was timely any longer, I plucked the bow from her topknot and kissed her again.