The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) (2 page)

Chapter Three

“Why didn’t you insist on calling the police immediately?” Rossi asked an hour later after he sent out an APB with a description of the thief. His face was exasperation red—somewhere between beet and burgundy. “Or insist that he leave the billfold untouched? The thief’s prints could have been all over it. If he’s in our database, we might have nailed him by now.”

I sat slumped on the zebra settee without even bothering to cross my legs, though they look better that way, longer, curvier, sexier. Regardless, I didn’t bother. Too demoralized. At least I was until Rossi squeezed in beside me and took my hands in his.

“Sorry to sound so harsh, sweetheart, but I worry about you and these scrapes you keep getting into.”

“But that’s not—”

“Fair,” he finished. “I know. The creep who robbed your client just wandered in. You said Stahlman drove off in a new Mercedes sedan. The robber must have spotted him coming into the shop and pounced. He was probably cruising the Fifth Avenue area looking for a mark.”

Rossi kissed me, but only a careful peck on the cheek. Though he’d put the Closed sign in the shop window, two women had already rattled the door handle, wanting to get in. I won’t say we were in a goldfish bowl exactly, but seated hip-to-hip on the narrow settee, we were a lot like two tropical exotics on display.

“I really should reopen, Rossi. I have nothing more to report. As soon as James left with Charlotte, I called to—”

Rossi reared upright. “Another woman was involved? You didn’t mention that.”

“Well, Charlotte’s not a woman, but she is quite a girl.”

“Want to clarify that?”

“Charlotte’s a Maltese.”

“A
what?
”

“She’s a dog. A lap dog.”

“Oh.”

“And she takes her work very seriously.”

“Whatever that means.” He eased back beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Despite Mr. Stahlman’s wishes, I have to file a report, though an unshaven, glassy-eyed teen isn’t a lot to go on. Even holey jeans doesn’t add much to the picture. And you didn’t get a look at a fleeing vehicle or a plate number.”

“I’m sorry—”

He stopped me with a kiss. Under the circumstances, not one of his best, but even his non-best was very, very good.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said, when he lifted his lips from mine. “It is what it is. And there’s a chance one of the cruiser teams will spot somebody fitting the description. But it’s a long shot. Unless he tries something again. If that happens, would you be able to identify him?”

“Of course, but you don’t think—”

Rossi gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “He probably won’t return here. But he might try something similar in another store.” He brushed a tendril of hair from my forehead. “I don’t want to scare you. Or maybe just enough so you’ll be careful. Should you ever see him lurking around here again, call me immediately.” Rossi took my hand in his and stroked it.

I loved his touch. I loved his warm peppermint breath fanning my cheek, and I absolutely adored his smoldering deep-set eyes. He could light fires with those eyes and had—in me. And I haven’t even mentioned his big white smile. He doesn’t flash it very often, but when he does, it’s well worth the wait.

On the other hand, he wears hideous Hawaiian shirts and leaves the tails hanging out over his white pants. Today he had on his favorite shirt, orange linen scattered with red plumeria blossoms. He claimed his casual appearance helped suspects relax during interrogations. At least that was his theory. What scared me was that I had started buying into his look. Actually I’d bought into a lot more than that, but not kissing on display. I wriggled out of his embrace, turned the Closed sign to Open and unlocked the door.

“Duty calls,” I said without returning to the settee.

“I should go anyway. I have desk work waiting at the station.” He stood. “Tonight? Your place?”

I nodded. “Please.”

A spark flashed in his eyes, igniting that same old fire in me. “You begging, Deva?”

A leading question, but asking provocative questions was Rossi’s stock in trade. He arched an eyebrow, waiting.

“Absolutely,” I said, and after a quick glance down Fern Alley to make sure no one was coming, I gave him a farewell kiss that shot his plumeria blossoms into outer space.

Two could play head games, right?

Chapter Four

The next morning the shop phone rang up a storm before I could yank the key out of the front door. I dropped my bag on a chair and sprinted over to the sales desk.

A voice like a file rasped through the line. “My name’s Hawkins. Stewart Hawkins, and I’ve got a house that needs some TLC. Or whatever the word is that you dames use.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr....ah...Hawkins.”

“No need to apologize. My bride wants the place done over. Doesn’t like the colors, doesn’t like the furniture. You know how that goes. I heard you’re good at this stuff, so that’s why I’m calling.” He paused to cough and take a breath, or maybe puff on a stogie. “You want to come over now and take a look?”

“Now? Well, I don’t know—”

“You don’t need the business?”

“Mr. Hawkins—”

“That’s right. You got it right. People at the Port Royal Club have been raving about your work. So my bride hears this and doesn’t want anybody else.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Just so you’ll know what to expect when you get here, her name’s Connie Rae. She’s from Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and has fake red fingernails.” A slight pause. “Everything else is the real deal, I can vouch for that.”

“Delighted to hear that, Mr. Hawkins, but—”

“She usually hangs out by the pool, so you can come over anytime today.”

“Today I have other—”

“You’ll need the address,” he said, butting in as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s 595 Whiskey Lane. Just ring the bell and walk in. I’ll be home all day too. Hey, I’m on my honeymoon. Got enough work cut out for me here, if you know what I mean. You got that address? Five ninety-five. See you later.”

He hung up, and a dial tone replaced his take-charge voice. I lowered the receiver slowly, intrigued that he apparently belonged to the Port Royal Club, Naples’s most prestigious private enclave. The address he gave me was intriguing too. A quick computer check of MapQuest proved what I suspected. Mr. Stewart Hawkins lived directly across the street from James Stahlman. A coincidence? Hmm. Maybe, or a little neighborly competition perhaps. Two families vying for the same designer. That kind of one-upmanship went on all the time.

On the other hand, I was probably giving myself too much credit. Mr. Hawkins most likely had no idea James had already contacted me. Well, at this point, neither project was a done deal, so in the interest of keeping my business alive, I’d check out both possibilities. If they both came through, I’d make two things clear. One, their interiors would not copycat each other, and two, my dealings with each would be kept completely private. To do otherwise would be totally unprofessional.

Despite the complication, I couldn’t help but feel excited. Two clients on the same street, imagine! And two initial tours of their houses on the same day. Well, why not? Like a true Red Sox fan, I’ve always enjoyed a double header.

Chapter Five

Though I disliked doing it, for two hot potential clients I locked up the shop once more. While interior design firms like mine didn’t thrive on walk-in sales of pillows and lamps and aromatherapy candles, turning off casual shoppers wasn’t a good move. You just didn’t know if today’s browser would become tomorrow’s major player.

But with my friend and assistant, Lee St. James, on a second honeymoon, I had no choice. So reluctantly, I posted the Closed sign in the front window where it couldn’t be missed, right next to a bergère I’d found at my favorite antiques-collectibles source. The chair’s wooden arms and legs had the kind of worn gilt finish I loved, and I’d had my workroom reupholster the cushions in a cheetah-print velvet. King Louis would have died at the mix, but that unexpected pairing made the old piece a knockout. Against one of the chair legs, I’d propped a white cardboard square that said,

From throwaway

To throwaway chic.

It can be done!

The little tableau had garnered quite a bit of interest and a few good clients. It was doubtful a prison-made chair would have the same oomph as the old Louis, but that remained to be seen. Anyway, the shop secured, I hurried out to my Audi and drove down Fifth Avenue South, Naples’s equivalent of L.A.’s Rodeo Drive.

Located on Fern Alley off Fifth, Deva Dunne Interiors was close enough to the high-rent district to make the shop seem like a part of the glamour. And to make me feel like I was one of the beautiful people, a little self-delusion that didn’t do any harm and lifted my spirits.

I passed the street’s major gem, the Sugden Theater, its palm tree-studded square a delightful green oasis in the heart of town, and continued on past planters spilling color and fragrance all along the way. For the length of time it took to drive the avenue, it was easy to believe all was well with the world. Another delusion.

But at least for the moment, everything
was
well in my world, and I took time as I drove to glory in that. If only everything could stay the same, the hot July sunshine, the flowers, the salty Gulf breeze, and Rossi and me just as we were last night. He had been amazing, tender and warm, passionate and...demanding. My face warmed thinking about him, or maybe the July sun shining in through the windshield caused my cheeks to heat up.

A truck’s horn blared, yanking me out of my reverie. I pressed on the gas and turned left onto palatial Gordon Drive. For once I didn’t rubberneck at the mega-mansions fronting the Gulf of Mexico. A working woman and glad to be one, I ignored the over-the-top opulence and concentrated on my driving. On Whiskey Lane, magnificent banyan trees lined both sides of the street, their lush crowns arching over the roadway. Behind the trees, stately homes peeked through the mature foliage like beautiful faces from behind a veil.

House number 595 turned out to be a steep-roofed structure that from the sidewalk looked quite modest. A deceptive view, I guessed, for the house probably reached deep into the lot.

I pulled onto the driveway and climbed out of the Audi. A panel truck with Tony’s Tiles & More painted on the side in big red letters sat in front of me, its two rear doors open wide. A man in grout-stained coveralls was lifting pails and tools into the opening.

I smoothed down my green mini and grabbed my tote and clipboard. “Hello,” I called.

I must have startled him, for he slammed the truck doors and swiveled around, his eyes narrowing.

“Are you leaving soon?” I asked. “My car’s blocking you.”

“That’s okay, lady,” he said, turning back for a moment to lock up. “I’ll be on the job a few more hours.”

“Fine then. I’ll leave the Audi where it is. If you need me, I’ll be inside.”

“No problem.”

I turned and walked away, but feeling his gaze hot on my back, I glanced over a shoulder. Sure enough, both hands stuffed in his overall pockets, he was watching me intently. Tall and bald and mountain-man skinny, he appeared to be somewhere in his mid-thirties. Caught staring, he forced out a smile and sent me a two-fingered salute. I returned it with a flourish and followed the yellow brick path up to the front door.

As Stewart Hawkins had directed, I rang the bell, and then again, but no one answered.

Ring the bell and walk in
, Hawkins had said, so I twisted the knob and opened the door. Calling “Hello,” I stepped into a foyer paved with Mexican tiles. Directly ahead lay the living room and, beyond, a screened-in terrace and pool. To the left ran a short corridor that probably led to a bedroom wing, and to the right an interesting architectural feature, a small rotunda with several doors opening onto...what? There had to be a kitchen somewhere, and a...

“You the decorator?”

I whirled around. Coming from the direction of the terrace, a fifty-something man strode toward me wearing a swimsuit, a cigar and nothing else. At least the swimsuit wasn’t skimpy. Thank God.

Though he was of medium height, everything else about him was writ large, very large—belly, thighs, biceps, neck—everything.

As he came closer, I backed up a step. “Mr. Hawkins?”

“Of course. Who else hangs out around here?”

Who else, indeed?

“You didn’t answer the question,” he said. “You the decorator?”

God, I hated the word
decorator.
“Yes, I’m Deva Dunne,” I said coolly.

“Classy name.”

“Really
?
” No one had ever told me that before, and I looked at him—well, at his hairy chest—with a freshly minted admiration. “Actually my first name is Devalera. After Eamon DeValera, my father’s political hero.”

“That right? No wonder you shortened it.”

“Exactly.”

Cigar clamped in his teeth, he yanked a shirt off the back of a chair and slid into it, leaving it open and unbuttoned. I guess he didn’t want to obstruct my view of his chest hair.

He upped his chin in the direction of the terrace. “I was just going for a dip, but it’ll wait. Unless you want to join me?”

I gestured at my green skirt and cropped white jacket. “I’m not dressed for the occasion.”

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned suddenly. “There’s always skinny-dipping.”

“Well—”

“Never mind. Some other time.” He rested the cigar on an ashtray, where it smoldered sullenly, and stuck out his hand. “Stewart Hawkins. Call me Stew.”

I let him prove his machismo by crunching the bones in my fingers. After flexing my hand to restore the blood flow, I handed him a business card. “How may I help you, Mr....Stew?”

“I bought this place a month ago. Before I met the little lady...the bride...so nothing’s been done in here. Except for some chairs and stuff that I already had, this is the way the previous owner left it. The bride and me both want to make some changes. I’ve got my ideas about what that means, and Connie Rae’s got hers.” He pointed a thick forefinger at me. “Your job is to figure out whose ideas are good and whose stink.”

My turn to point a finger. One tipped with Tropical Tangerine nail polish and aimed straight at his nose. “Hold everything right there, Stew. I can’t get in the middle of a marital dispute.”

He picked up his cigar, took a deep drag and exhaled a lung-clogging cloud of smoke.

I coughed, a hint to put out the Tampa-Havana or the stogie or whatever that noxious thing was, but my cough meant nothing. He took another puff and said, “Of course, you can. You deal with couples all the time, so handling family disputes is part of your job description. I know that for a fact. So you got a choice here, take my offer or leave it. But before you leave it, let me tell you this.” He stepped forward, poking the air with his cigar and giving me a better view of his chest hair than I wanted. “I’m the one with the money. Not Connie Rae. Got that?”

“You’re bribing me.”

“Exactly. Now, you want a tour of the place?”

“Will Mrs. Stew be joining us?”

“Doubt it. She’s still in bed. Last I looked, she was out like a light. So it’ll just be you and me. Come on.” Crooking a finger, he beckoned me toward the fascinating rotunda. “Over here’s the kitchen. Let’s start there.”

No harm in taking a look now that I was here, so I tamped down the moral dilemma and followed my unlikely Pied Piper into the heart of the home. After all, what did I have to lose?