The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) (5 page)

Chapter Twelve

Tanned and terrific in a new butter-yellow sundress and matching espadrilles that wrapped around her ankles, Lee St. James waltzed into work the next morning. All smiles, she caught me in a bear hug and said, “I want y’all to know I’ve been on the best second honeymoon ever.”

I believed her. Always beautiful, today she radiated happiness.

“So Hilton Head is a good vacation destination?”

“I can’t rightly say, Deva. I didn’t see much of the town.”

“No?” I smiled but tried to hide it.

“Uh-uh. Just the little bitty beach in front of our hotel and the dining room. Though we mostly ordered in room service.”

“And how was the room service?” I arched an eyebrow.

She perched on the Chiavari chair behind the bureau plat. “I wish I could say, but if my momma were alive, she’d be shocked if I did.”

“That good?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She blushed and changed the subject. “When we got home, though, we had some bad news waiting for us.”

“Oh? Sounds serious.”

She nodded, frowning. “It is, even if Paulo says it’s a first-world problem.”

I sank onto the zebra settee across from her. “Lee, explain, please.”

Her lips trembled ever so slightly. “We’re being evicted.”

“From your apartment?”

“Yes. And the owner didn’t tell us why. Just wants us out as soon as our lease is up—at the end of the month. It’s not fair. We thought the lease was being renewed, and we’ve taken such good care of—”

“I know you have.” I blew out a breath. “Now what?”

“Well, we’ll look for a temporary place if we have to. But what we really want to do is buy a house. Paolo says we can afford a condo to start. Something like yours at Surfside, with two bedrooms and a lanai and a pool, would be just about perfect.”

“Funny you should say that. My place is going up for sale as soon as I get around to putting it on the market.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened into two blue pools. “Wait till Paulo hears that. Do y’all mean it?”

“Absolutely,” I said, deciding in that instant.

Though I hadn’t a clue as to how much Rossi would pay for the Calista lot, I did have an idea of what a lieutenant in the Naples P.D. earned. So unless he had more surprises in store, we’d need the equity from both my condo and his house in Countryside to build our new dream home.

“My goodness,” Lee said. “I leave for a week and come back to all kinds of changes.”

“True.” I laughed. “There’s been a lot of excitement around here in the last few days.”

We spent the next couple of hours straightening merchandise and greeting drop-in browsers. We were catching up on girl talk when a tall, statuesque brunette with excellent carriage strode past the front window. A moment later, James Stahlman’s fiancée, Kay Hawkins, pushed open the shop door, sending the bells into their usual frenzy.

Holding her shoulders as square as a sergeant-at-arms, she smiled a small smile at the sight of me. “Deva, I was hoping you’d be here. We need to talk.”

“Kay, how stunning you look.” And she did, in a smart black sheath and leopard print pumps.

After I introduced Lee, Kay checked her watch. I could have told her it wasn’t quite eleven.

“Is lunch possible?” she asked. “My treat. I know it’s early, but I was hoping you might have some free time. We really need to talk.”

“Of course. I’m sure Lee can spare me for an hour or so.”

I reached underneath the sales counter for my purse, wondering what this emergency visit was all about. I thought we’d nailed the color scheme for James’s house—basically an ivory envelope with flashes of cobalt and coral. There hadn’t been time to select fabric for his sofas and chairs, or to shop for lamps and other accessories. In interior design, hurry wasn’t the path to a polished effect, and I hoped Kay understood that. More than a little concerned she would insist on a rush job, I accompanied her along Fifth Avenue to the Magnolia Café, too preoccupied to enjoy the breeze or the sunshine or the flowers along the way.

As we settled into a booth, she dealt me another surprise. Raising her chin, she flung her chestnut hair from her face and said, “I’m going to be honest here, Deva. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have hired you to redo James’s house.”

A challenge. Okay. I raised my chin, but no point in trying to fling back my hair. I have the kind that doesn’t fling. My chin had to do double duty. “Why not, Kay?”

My tone must have been super cool, for she flushed and reached across the table to give my hand a quick squeeze. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Good. Because it sounded shitty.” Not a professional response but one straight from the heart.

To her credit, Kay laughed just as a waiter with the bearing of an ambassador to Great Britain approached and placed menus in front of us. Before he said a thing, she waved him away with, “Just water for now.”

She turned back to me. “Your reputation around town is marvelous. Several people at the club have been singing your praises.”

Somewhat mollified, I picked up my menu. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Our waiter returned with goblets of water and a basket of rolls. This time he hovered.

“Give us a few more minutes,” Kay said, dismissing him.

Obviously we weren’t going to eat anytime soon. But that was fine. All I really wanted was to hear the reason for this meeting.

“What has me concerned, Deva, isn’t your lack of designing skill. It’s Stew Hawkins.”

“Stew?” I leaned forward and forgot all about the menu. “Why is he the problem?”

“You know we used to be married?”

“Yes. James mentioned that.”

“Our divorce—our whole marriage—was a nightmare.” She frowned but for a moment, only then her dark eyes took on a shine. “The ending settlement, however, was almost worth what I went through with that—”

“Ladies, we have several specials today.” The ambassador had returned.

“No recitals,” Kay declared, picking up the menu with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll have the grilled chicken Caesar, with a side of fresh fruit.”

“Make that two,” I said.

When we were alone again, she said, “As they say, all’s well that ends well. But the end isn’t in sight yet. Not completely. That bastard—” she finished the sentence this time, “—bought the house across from James.”

“I know. James told me.”

“Can you believe it? The nerve of him.” She plucked a roll out of the bread basket, buttered it and bit off a chunk.

Having her ex living across the street sure hadn’t affected her appetite.

“No need to worry,” I said. “I’ll be careful not to create parallel designs.”

She stopped chewing and swallowed. “Parallel designs? What does that mean?”

“One house copying the look of another.”

As if swatting away flies, she waved a hand in the air. “I’m not worried about that. I intend never to step foot in Stew’s place. Do whatever you like. Make the interiors twins, for all I care.” She forgot about the bread and, leaning over the table, lowered her voice. “But you do have to promise me, Deva, that you will never talk to Stew about me, not even so much as mention my name.”

“I assure you, I—”

She raised a palm for silence. “And never, under any circumstances are you to tell him what James and I are doing or planning or saying. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Annoyance stiffening my spine, I sat up soldier straight. “I have no intention of doing any such thing,” I said, for emphasis leaving a little space between each word.

“Excellent. Because he bought the house on Whiskey Lane for one reason only. To torment me.”

Too irritated with the woman to simply agree, I said, “Isn’t that rather bizarre, Kay? I mean your divorce is final, and he remarried and all, though I will admit Connie Rae’s...Mrs. Hawkins’s death was an unexpected blow.”

“He probably killed her,” Kay said smoothly, breaking off a piece of roll and popping it in her mouth.

“That’s quite an accusation.” And this was quite a conversation. I was an interior designer, not a shrink. Or a homicide detective, though Rossi would laugh to hear me admit that.

“You think so?” Kay said. “He’s capable of it. What kind of husband locks his wife out of the house in the middle of the night? When she’s stark naked?”

“No, you don’t mean to tell me...no, he didn’t.” I forgot all about eating. This stuff was better than food.

“Yes, I didn’t have a thing on. Not even jewelry.”

Not wanting to miss a word, I bent in closer. “What happened?”

“Stew and I were arguing. As usual. He didn’t like something I said, so he grabbed my arm and threw me out onto the front lawn, and me without a stitch on. And the mosquitoes! Omigod.”

With a flourish, the waiter placed our salads in front of us. “Enjoy, ladies.”

Kay dug in immediately, but more curious than hungry, I asked, “What on earth did you do?”

“I found a beach towel thrown over a patio chair and wrapped myself in it. Then I sat on the back terrace all night shivering and fighting the bugs. While Stew was sleeping it off the next morning, Teresa let me in.”

“Yes, she mentioned that she’d worked for you.”

Kay stopped chewing long enough to laugh. “Not really for me. Always for Stew...at times I wondered what went on between them. Especially after she refused to testify against him during the divorce.”

“I see,” I replied, really beginning to.

“Do you understand why I needed to talk to you? I don’t trust Stew’s motives in buying the house at 595, and I don’t trust Teresa, either. In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t marry her instead of that Connie Rae person.” Kay looked up from her salad. “You met Connie Rae, didn’t you?”

I shook my head. “No, she was already dead when I saw her.”

“Too bad,” Kay said, too casually to be believed. “I remember her from the club. She was a bartender there, though barely of drinking age herself. That must have been the lure—youth. Teresa’s forty if she’s a day.” Kay shrugged. “Oh well, now that I have your promise not to gossip, I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?”

I picked up my fork and took a bite of chicken, hoping it wouldn’t choke me. Whether Kay knew it or not, her warning not to carry tales from her house to Stew’s was frigging insulting. To spread gossip about clients was not only totally unprofessional, but on a practical level, a sure way to kill a business.

Instead of wondering if I would betray her daily comings and goings, she might be better off wondering about how James Stahlman’s first two wives had died. If I were about to become wife number three, I’d sure wonder. And worry.

Chapter Thirteen

Outside the Magnolia Café, Kay and I hugged goodbye, best-friend style. Why not? We weren’t friends, but we were both women who had experienced life and its, well...surprises.

I strolled leisurely back to the shop, breathing in salty Gulf air that showed a definite tendency to succumb to summer humidity. But no complaints. The breeze was still balmy, the sky blue, and the flowers perfuming Fifth Avenue spilled exuberantly from their planters.

With high season over, traffic had thinned, and miracle of miracles, empty parking slots lined both sides of the street. Our town slowed down for the summer, and that was good as long as it didn’t slow to a crawl. After all, people like me had businesses to run.

I turned off the avenue onto Fern Alley, and as I passed the window of Off Shoots, the ladies boutique next to my shop, I waved at Irma, one of the leggy young twins who ran it. Farther along the alley, a white panel truck sat parked outside Deva Dunne Interiors. Big, bold red letters on the truck’s side announced Tony’s Tiles & More. This same truck had been parked in the Hawkins’s driveway the day Connie Rae died. And if I wasn’t mistaken, that was Tony sitting behind the wheel with the motor running. Strange. Why would he be lingering in the alley?

I was about to step into the shop when the truck’s passenger side door opened and a man jumped out. He had a manila envelope in his hand and the most perfect physique I’d ever laid eyes on. No wonder I noticed. In a muscle shirt and shorts that revealed his tattoos and every toned line of his body, he’d be hard to miss.

I had my hand on the shop door handle—and probably my mouth hanging open—when he sprang forward. “Allow me, ma’am.”

I tore my gaze from his pecs long enough to murmur, “Thank you,” and walked inside. He followed me in, took one look at Lee and zoomed right over to her.

“I’m looking for a Mrs. Deva Dunne,” he said. “Are you the lady, by any chance?”

“No, sir, I’m not. She’s standing there beside you.”

He swiveled on those toned legs of his and treated me to an eye swipe. Head to toe. A tattooed Adonis with a shaved head, he was here for something other than interior design services or my name wasn’t Devalera Agnes Kennedy Dunne.

Using my Boston voice, the one I hauled out for occasions calling for cool and smooth, I said, “I’m Deva Dunne.”

“I’m Mike. Mike Hammerjack.”

My jaw fell open. This time no question about it. It unhinged. “Mr. Hammerjack from Florida State Prison?”

He grinned as if I had paid him a compliment. “You remembered. That’s nice, coming from a beautiful redhead.”

Really?
So who was the smoothie here?

I wasn’t anxious to make physical contact with this guy but good manners dictated that I extend my hand. So I did, holding it to the fire so to speak.

He tucked the manila envelope under his arm and took my hand in both of his, sandwiching it between his palms. “At last,” he said, gazing into my eyes with the intensity of a lover. I swear, a lover.

Perspiring, I slipped my fingers free and found what I hoped was my off-putting Back Bay tone. “How may I help you, Mr. Hammerjack?”

“Mike.”

I just nodded.

“I would love to hear you say my name.”

I cleared my throat and glanced over at Lee. She winked. That did it. “Let’s just get to the reason for this visit, Mr. Hammerjack.”

Unfazed, he handed me the manila envelope that had been pressed to his armpit. It was dry, thank God.

“This is the Help-a-Con information I wrote to you about. With pictures of the prison-made furniture. Price lists, too.” He cleared his throat. “I added Warden Finney’s private phone number. Cost me two packs of cigarettes, but it was worth it. Thought I might get you through to him faster, in case you had a question or something.”

“That was very considerate of you.”

“Not a problem. I hope you can use some of the stuff the boys made. It’s for a good cause.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll try. I have a project, possibly two, that may need office furniture. If the prison pieces are suitable, I don’t see why they wouldn’t work.”

“Terrific!” He grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down. This time I was aware of the calluses on his fingers.

Outside, a horn honked. Mike Hammerjack glanced out the window. “That’s Tony. I’d better go. He’s chomping at the bit.”

“You know Tony well?” I asked out of idle curiosity.

“Yeah, we go way back. He’s a good guy, I can tell you that. We went to high school together. Difference is, Tone stayed on the straight and narrow, know what I mean? He’s a great guy all right, even gave me a job. I’d rather work with wood, but that’s okay. I can lay tile with the best of them.”

He turned to leave then stopped as a thought hit him. “Hey, you want to see a piece of the prison furniture? Tony’s got one in the truck. It’ll give you an idea of the quality.”

I nodded. “Good idea.”

“Tony bought a table for his mother’s place. Like I said, he’s a good guy. A good snakeman too.”

“A good
what?
”

“Professional snake trapper. One of the best in the business. He ferrets out those wigglers like nobody else. Caught a fifteen footer opening day of the Python Challenge. The only snakeman who did.”

“I’m impressed.”
And horrified.

“So’s everybody else. I wish I’d been there, but that was a couple of weeks ago, before I got out of Florida State,” he said, making the slammer sound like a four-year college. “But as soon as I got sprung he took me into the ‘Glades for a couple of days. We had good luck too. If I didn’t have to meet my parole officer tomorrow, we’d still be out there. You have to love that swamp.”

Talking nonstop, he led me slowly to the back of the truck. He unlatched the rear doors, flung them wide, and stepped aside so I could peer inside.

“Hey, Tony, the lady wants to take a look at—”

Tony never heard him. A scream of pure panic rose up from my lungs, ripped into my throat and burst out of my mouth, shattering the quiet calm of Fern Alley.

Frozen with fear, I stood there shaking, a cold chill raising goose bumps on my skin. I wanted to run but shock had me rooted to the spot—the back of the truck was full of snakes.

“Hey, the table’s not that bad,” Mike joked. He put one of his callused hands on my arm, for reassurance, I guess, but I recoiled as if one of the snakes had wrapped itself around me.

My scream had brought a cluster of people on the run. They stood in a rapt semicircle behind us—Lee, Irma, and several women wearing outfits with boutique tags dangling from their sleeves. Repelled and yet fascinated, when they spotted the snakes, they screamed too, but like me, they couldn’t look away either.

A truck door opened and slammed shut.

“What’s going on back here?” Tony asked.

Nobody answered him. Then Mike said, “I was showing the little lady the table you bought. Guess I forgot about the snakes.”

“You’d forget your head if wasn’t screwed on,” Tony said.

“I didn’t think they’d scare her so bad. They’re in cages.”

“You don’t think, that’s right,” Tony retorted.

“See that big one over there?” Mike asked me. I saw it all right and shuddered. “He’s thirteen feet long. Been measured. Tony caught him, the first day of the Challenge, the same day he caught the fifteen footer. It’s a record, hey, Tone?”

“You know what? You need to shut up. You talk too much,” Tony said, slamming the rear doors shut. “Come on, let’s go. We got work to do.”

Mike nodded and turned to me. “It’s been a pleasure, ma’am.” His eyes sparkled as he spoke. Had he enjoyed scaring the daylights out of me? And worse, had he done so on purpose?

I couldn’t be sure, but when he extended his hand, I didn’t take it. He shrugged and hopped into the truck. As they drove off, he rolled down his side window. “Hey, Mrs. Dunne,” he called. “I forgot to ask. What did you think of the table?”