The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) (7 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Tony dropped his trowel, and with Mike hot on his tail, he rushed to the French doors.

“Under the bed,” I whispered.

He didn’t need any further instructions. Something in my voice must have told him everything he had to know. He knelt beside the bed, tossed the ruffle out of his way and, peering underneath the mattress, he reached for the snake.

Slowly, without hurry, he grasped the creature as I stood, horrified, next to the open door, ready to beat a retreat if need be.

With one hand behind the python’s head and one on its body, he pulled. And pulled and pulled. A cold sweat trickled down my back.
Was there no end to the thing?

Finally, grunting with effort, he said, “Mike, give us a hand here. Take his head.”

Mike knelt and grabbed the snake’s front end. Flat on his belly now, Tony reached farther in and said, “Okay, I got him good.” Together, they dragged the python out to the center of the room where it writhed in their hands, ready to wrap itself around one of them and squeeze....

“This your fifteen footer?” Mike asked. “The one that escaped?”

Tony flashed him a warning glance to shut up. But impervious to hints, Mike glanced over at me, his hands full of snake, and said, “Isn’t this guy something? You don’t see one like this very often. His skin’s worth big bucks. You know how many pairs of shoes he’ll make?”

Hurried footsteps pounded along the hall. A moment later Stew hovered in the doorway. “Had to calm the housekeeper down. She was half nuts. What’s going...?” He took one look at the python stretching across his bedroom and all color drained from his face. “Where did you find it?”

“Under your bed,” I told him.

He pointed to his chest. “Under my...” His eyes widened and if anything he grew more ashen, and then like the day he discovered Connie Rae’s body, he passed out cold, toppling over like an axed redwood right across the struggling python.

“The snake! Get him off the snake,” Tony yelled. Mike dropped the python’s front end and, grabbing Stew’s feet, yanked him across the carpeting.

The movement woke Stew, who came to with a shudder. He sat up and aimed a shaky finger at the python writhing in Tony’s grasp. “You telling me I slept with that thing under my bed?”

“Looks that way,” Mike said cheerfully, picking up the python about a foot down from the head.

“How long?”

“When did he escape on you, Tone?” Mike asked.

“You ought to know,” Tony retorted, disgust clear in his tone. “You let him loose.”

“I didn’t let him loose. The boys in Jake’s Diner wanted to see him. I just forgot to relock his cage is all.”

“How long was it out?” Stew asked. “How long?”

“He got loose two days ago,” Tony said. “Thanks to this bonehead. It never should have happened. You’ve got my apology, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Hmmph,” was all Stew could muster, and from his position on the floor, he watched in silence as Tony and Mike hustled the snake out to a cage in the truck.

I spent the rest of the afternoon on damage control. Back in the great room, stretched out on the couch with a damp dish towel on her forehead, Teresa let me play nursemaid. Ditto for Stew, collapsed on a club chair. He refused a dish towel but gulped down a double scotch on the rocks.

Even though Tony vowed the fifteen footer was the only one missing, Stew had him search every room in the house to make certain no other pythons lurked in dark corners. In less than an hour, Tony declared the property snake free, and after all, he ought to know, he was the best snakeman in the business. Too bad he’d let Mike so carelessly manhandle the fifteen footer.

Once the house was again safe, Stew insisted that Tony and Mike drive “the damn snake off my property.” The two men left for the day with promises to return tomorrow.

Stew waved them off with a weary hand, and when Tony’s Tiles backed out of the driveway, he said, “I’d tell them to get lost for good, but I want that pool job finished. A couple more days should do it.”

With my two patients resting comfortably, I felt free to leave as well. Before I could, and as much as I didn’t want to, I had to return to the master bedroom to retrieve my portfolio. My car keys and wallet were in one of the side pockets.

For all the earlier excitement, the bedroom was now a calm if somewhat gaudy pink retreat, the dust ruffle still tossed over the mattress like a skirt hiked waist high. I flipped it down and made a mental note to dispense with a ruffle on Stew’s redo. His new bed would be platform style with no space underneath where critters could hide. I think Stew would appreciate that. At the very least, it would save him—or Teresa—from checking under the mattress every night before they went to sleep.

The pile of Connie Rae’s clothes covered the bedspread, ready to be packed into the shipping boxes. Topping the pile was a pretty lilac-flowered notebook, the kind a young girl might scribble in. Connie Rae’s journal? I picked it up and skimmed through a few pages. Had Connie Rae confided all of her secrets to this book, secrets she wouldn’t want her momma to know? For some reason—pity for her untimely end, perhaps—I wanted to protect the girl’s memory and her family from further hurt.

Not to be hypocritical about it, I was curious too. What
had
Connie Rae confided to this pretty flowered notebook?

Nothing much. Disappointed, I glanced through several pages, reading girlish confidences about manicures and haircuts and how she hated her boss, all told in loopy, unformed letters.

And then, pay dirt. Three weeks ago, right after her impulsive marriage, she wrote,

Tonight...afterwards...I
told Stew all about my
<
3.
He swears he won’t let me die.
He said there are doctors in Naples who can treat a bad
<
3
like mine.
Isn’t that wonderful?

Yes
,
indeed.
I snapped the notebook shut and dropped it in the portfolio. This wasn’t a crime scene, so technically I wasn’t tampering with evidence, though technically...actually...I
was
stealing someone else’s property.

I fully intended to return the notebook, but only after Rossi had a chance to read it.

Stew had pretended to know nothing about Connie Rae’s heart condition, and yet he had known. Why had he lied, not only to me, but to the police? Clearly he was trying to hide something.

Chapter Seventeen

With the teddy and the lilac notebook tucked in my portfolio like contraband goods, I left Chez Hawkins for home but didn’t get far.

No sooner had I tossed the portfolio in the Audi’s back seat than a voice called, “Deva Dunne! I want to see you.”

I turned from the car and glanced over a shoulder.

James Stahlman stood on his front lawn holding Charlotte’s leash in one hand and a wineglass in the other. “Don’t drive off,” he warned. “We need to talk.”

Maybe
he
did, but what I needed was to get home to Surfside and cook a simple dinner for two.

Reminding myself that James was a valued client, I pasted a big glad-to-see-you smile on my face, closed the Audi door and strolled across Whiskey Lane. For I suspected James wouldn’t cross the road to Stew’s property if his life depended on it.

“How are you?” I asked, stooping to pat Charlotte’s topknot. She must have visited the groomer since I last saw her. Today she sported a kelly-green bow.

“We’re fine if somewhat offended,” James replied.

“Oh?” I asked as if I didn’t know why.

“I have to say I’m disappointed, Deva.” In true James fashion, he left off the accusatory “in you.”

“Why?” This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Your car has been parked in Hawkins’s drive the entire afternoon and not once did you call or ring my bell. And if I’m not mistaken, I secured your services before Hawkins did.”

He drew himself upright and, ignoring Charlotte’s tug on the leash, took a sip of his wine.

“A cabernet?” I asked, tilting my chin at his glass.

“Yes, a 1997. A good year for reds. But let’s not change the subject. I can’t linger, much as I’d like to. Charlotte and I are on our evening cocktail dog walk, and she’s eager to meet her friends.”

“What’s a cocktail dog walk?” I asked, really wanting to know

“Exactly what the name implies,” James replied coolly, as if miffed that I should have to ask. “It’s an evening ritual Charlotte wouldn’t miss for the world. Would you, sweetheart?”

Woof!

A few doors down the lane, a schnauzer strained on a leash. An elderly woman with a glass in her hand struggled to restrain him.

“There’s Max,” James said to Charlotte. Judging from her taut leash, I figured she already knew.

“Do join us for a bit, Deva. As you can see, Charlotte can’t wait any longer.”

The schnauzer, his hind leg raised, was anointing a banyan trunk while his mistress sipped something clear and icy from a tall glass.

“I don’t wish to sound petulant,” James said as we approached the pair, “but why have you seen fit to work with Hawkins and let my project languish?”

“I’ve done no such thing,” I said, striving for a tone somewhere between indignation and conciliation. “We’ve already decided on classic white for your major color, and I’ve made several selections for your accent pieces and fabrics. Once you let me know when you want the painters to begin, I’ll contact Tom Kruse at Oceanside Finishes.”

Having completed his business, the schnauzer lowered his leg and sniffed around the base of the banyan for a few moments. Then apparently finding Charlotte more alluring than whatever he’d been sniffing, he bounded toward us. His sudden lurch caught his mistress off guard, and some of her drink sloshed onto the sidewalk. Max sniffed that too, but not for as long as the banyan trunk. Well, some odors
are
more fascinating than others.

Returning my attention to James, I said, “You do understand that your rooms will be in disarray for a while. We’ll have to remove the window treatments, send your seating to the upholsterer, and painters’ drop cloths will be everywhere. Though I realize the surprise is over, I thought you still preferred to wait until you and Kay left on your honeymoon.”

A shadow of annoyance crossed James’s face. “I prefer the expression ‘wedding trip.’”

Charlotte preferred to hurry, and after exchanging lip licks with schnauzer Max, the instant she caught sight of a chocolate lab, she tugged on her leash

“Oh, there’s Moose,” James told her as if she didn’t know. Moose’s owner, a portly man in a white shirt and tie and the bottom half of a business suit, held a drink that looked dark enough to be medicinal.

Charlotte barked out a hello and Moose woofed back. An adorable Lhasa Apso who had the same beauty-queen potential as Charlotte scampered down a driveway with a striking blonde—a white wine girl—racing to keep up.

“There’s Stella,” James told Charlotte. No need, her tail wagged like a metronome.

I placed a hand on James’s arm. “Could we stop for a moment? Without a dog on a leash, I feel terribly underdressed for this party.”

He frowned and pointed to Charlotte’s tail. “A moment only...”

“I know. When are you planning to leave on your...ah...wedding trip, so I can tell the contractor to begin?”

“We’re not leaving. At least not before the house is refurbished.”

“No?”

“No. Kay wants to be here to supervise the renovation.”

Oh
,
really?

Charlotte’s tail wagged overtime, but screw it, this was serious. It was design over dog. “Kay’s input will be welcome, of course. But let’s make one thing clear before we begin. The success of the project depends on me. That makes me the decider. And the decider is the supervisor. Also, not to be crass but practical, one half of the estimated costs are payable before we begin.”

Moose, Stella and Max were bearing down on us fast. Giddy with excitement, Charlotte did so much yipping and sniffing and leaping up and down that James had difficulty keeping his cabernet from spilling. My day had me so frazzled, I wanted to yank the glass out of his hand and drain it, but instead I quietly waited to be fired.

James surprised me. He smiled. “I like your spirit, Deva. Rest assured, as soon as I receive your proposal, a check will be in the mail. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must find out how Moose fared at his chiropractor’s.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me?”

James’s eyes widened. “Certainly not. Moose suffers from a bad back. The chiropractor has done wonders for him.”

Speechless, shaking my head, I turned and headed back to the Audi. Wait till Rossi heard about the cocktail dog walk. No question he’d believe every word. You just couldn’t make up stuff like this.

I also wondered what he’d think of Connie Rae’s journal.

Chapter Eighteen

When I drove onto the Surfside parking lot, my condo lights gleamed through the front window.

Rossi’s home.

It had been quite a day, and I looked forward to a quiet evening. Maybe we could have dinner in the living room in front of the TV. Kick off our shoes, share a bottle of wine.

I hurried inside and dropped the portfolio on a chair. “Rossi, I’m home!”

“So am I,” he said, striding out of the kitchen.

I ran to him, and holding out his arms, he enfolded me in one of those embraces that I lived for—never tiring of them, never getting too many of them, never wanting them to end.

He kissed me as if he had invented how, starting slow and soft, his lips velvet against mine, then hardening, and teasing until I opened to him, a mini opening, an opening that promised more, much more.

My neediness must have shown, for he held me at arm’s length for a moment and smiled into my eyes. “That was quite a welcome. Too bad I can’t stay and make the most of it.”

“Oh no. Not again tonight.”

“Afraid so.” He stroked my bare arms, his fingers telling me what he wouldn’t say—he didn’t want to leave. “There was a pile-up on I-75 this afternoon, and we’re trying to sort out who’s responsible. One of the victims is in surgery. If he’s alert enough later, I need to question him.” He planted a kiss on my forehead and let me go. “So I’m off to the hospital. Can’t be helped.”

“I know.” I also knew this was what a detective’s life entailed, and I was struggling with the reality of it—the danger, the uncertainty, the times when emergencies came first.

But I pasted on a smile and tried not to show my disappointment.

“I called earlier,” Rossi said, “but when you didn’t answer, I figured you were having a busy day. So I bought a pick-up meal at Publix Market. Barbequed chicken and a Greek salad. I just stopped by to drop them off.”

“That’s wonderful, Rossi. Thank you. It has been a long day.”

“And I left something for you to read. It’s in that envelope on the desk. Why don’t you take a look at it?”

“I will,” I said. “Sounds important.”

With a quick, two-fingered salute of farewell, he was gone.

Curious, I strolled over to the desk and, with a little sigh, picked up the envelope. I’d be the one doing the reading tonight, not Rossi.

I sat on the sofa, slid a finger under the envelope flap and lifted out what looked like an official document. It was the deed to the Calista Sands house lot, and it listed me as the paid-in-full owner.

Clipped to the deed, a note in Rossi’s big bold scrawl read,

Let’s get started
,
Deva.
You’ve always praised Harlan Conway as a gifted architect.
Why not contact him ASAP and have him draw up a set of plans?

He’d signed the note simply R. Actually it wasn’t a note. It was a love letter, Rossi style. He wanted me to have the house of my dreams and was doing everything in his power to make that happen. Even to suggesting Harlan Conway. Though I’d disliked Harlan’s indifferent treatment of a former client of mine who had been madly in love with him, as a Florida architect he had no peer. Rossi was right. Together Harlan and I could design a house that would fit the site perfectly and incorporate all my favorite features and Rossi’s too.

I leaned back against the cushions and just for fun dreamed of living in a postmodern shotgun-style house, its sleekness softened with Old Florida motifs. Beadboard ceilings and floors built from salvaged hardwood. Vintage tiles in the baths and a Viking stove in the kitchen. A deck on stilts overlooking the water with a screened-in porch behind it for when night fell and the mosquitoes buzzed...

Or maybe something totally different. A pillared, neo-Classical folly, say, small in scope but exquisite in detail. No, too formal. Rossi wouldn’t care for that approach, and he had to be happy too. Well, we could always...

Whoa.
I’d gotten way ahead of myself. First we’d show Harlan the site and let him make suggestions. Besides, though contemplating the future might be exciting, I had to be practical too. Building costs were high, especially for custom work, so as soon as Rossi and I both approved a design, I’d put the condo on the market. Maybe Lee and Paulo would get their financing soon and be able to buy it. I hoped so. I knew they’d love it. And then I’d move in with Rossi in Countryside until the new house was ready, and after that...

I breathed a sigh of pure contentment and tucked the deed back in the envelope. My fantasies were wonderful, even doable, but to help make them come true, I had work to perform, clients to keep happy, and a business to run. Rossi had set our plans in motion, but building our new home was a team effort, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

That meant I’d soon be moving from Surfside. I glanced around my familiar living room. For the first time since I’d lived here, it seemed cramped to me, its muted greens and turquoise a tad dated. I had to smile at my own dissatisfaction, for to be honest, ever since I’d sold my late husband Jack’s Irish antiques, I hadn’t really been happy with the changed look of the place. Not with the colors, or the consignment store secretarial, or the nubby club chairs...
Designer
,
heal thyself
.

The portfolio with the journal inside still lay on the chair where I tossed it.

Too bad I hadn’t had a chance to show it to Rossi. Though on second thought, maybe that was just as well. He’d been working twelve hours most days, sometimes even longer, and I didn’t want to burden him with yet another problem. After all, no crime had been committed. Stew had lied was all...lied about Connie Rae’s life-threatening illness. At least I think that was all.

Anyway, according to what I read in the journal, somebody had lied. Why would a girl claim her husband knew she was in danger of dying if he didn’t know? And if Stew was aware of his wife’s desperate situation, why would he deny the knowing? None of it made sense. To get at the truth in Connie Rae’s journal, I needed Naomi Pierce, a handwriting expert and woman of many talents. Providing I could find her.

I had to. An urgent need to learn more about the dead girl crowded out all other thoughts. Acting on a hunch, I stowed the deed safely in a desk drawer, retrieved my cell phone from the orange tote and carried it out to the kitchen counter.

I perched on a stool, clicked on the Google icon and tapped in Handwriting Analysis. A menu of several names from around the country popped up, but no Naomi Pierce from Naples. Not under America’s Handwriting Expert or Forensic Document Examiner, either. Before switching to Graphology, I’d try Signature Expert—Forged wills, contracts, forms. And there she was, with both an email address and a local phone number.

Though psyching out human behavior from how a person wielded a pen wasn’t exactly a skill in high demand, on occasion the NPD had used Naomi to help crack a case. She excelled at ferreting out hidden motivation. And that was what I was after. Motivation.

I’d try the phone number first. It would be faster. But I was out of luck. A robo voice came on the line: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” The email address then. No luck there, either. An instant after I sent a message, it was bounced back to me. Now what?

Naomi was a free spirit who moved from one rental apartment and trailer park to another. I’d never known exactly where she lived at any one time, and in the past year or so, I’d lost track of her completely.

The duty officer at the station might have her new number. But even so, he wouldn’t give it to a stranger on the phone. If all else failed, I’d ask Rossi to track her down, but he was already so overworked I hated to add to his schedule.

I glanced at my watch. Nearly eight o’clock. He’d been on the job since dawn. I wondered if he’d had any dinner and hopped off the stool to check the fridge. Nope. The barbequed chicken hadn’t been touched nor the Greek salad either. He’d probably feasted on a cup of stale coffee and a bag of peanuts. What he needed now was a meal and a good night’s sleep, not another task.

That settled it. I had to find Naomi on my own. Naples was her home. She’d been born and raised here, and chances were good that she still lived in town. I could go to the Collier County tax assessor’s office, or drop in at a local bistro she used to frequent...

Or...

Or!
Wanting to slap myself up the forehead for not remembering sooner, I forgot about the chicken and the greens and scrolled through the cell again. Naomi used to do calligraphy at an art shop, the fancy kind of penmanship people used on bar mitzvah, bridal shower and wedding invitations. She once said she made more money from calligraphy than from analyzing people’s handwriting. How much more was a good question. Naomi pretty much lived on the edge.

At the Art Shops listing, I ran a finger along the search results. What was the name of the last place she’d worked at? No...no...no...then there it was.

You’ve Been Framed.