The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) (9 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Okay, I had a brief moment of satisfaction telling Teresa that basically she was a slut. And I’d lied too. She wasn’t getting the teddy. I’d already thrown it in the trash. I was wrong on both counts. Nana Kennedy would be furious if she found out. Though I missed her terribly, maybe it was just as well she had passed away fifteen years ago.

“Say what you mean,” she’d once told me, “but always be kind. Nasty remarks are not worthy of God’s children. Unless,” she’d added, eyes atwinkle, “you’re pressed to the wall. Then let ’er rip.” She’d held up a warning finger. “Now don’t be goin’ out of your way to find trouble, but when it finds you, stand up for yourself. Remember, you’re a Kennedy.” Well, a Dunne soon to be a Rossi.

Whatever my name, that exchange with Teresa didn’t make the cut as trouble. Bottom line, I was ashamed of myself and vowed to be extra kind the next time we met. I fretted over it all the way to Fern Alley where a surprise awaited—Rossi. He leaped up from the zebra settee and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“Glad you’re back. Though the wait gave me a chance to visit with Lee.” He winked at her. “Don’t tell your husband.”

“I most certainly will,” she said with mock indignation.

I laughed, enjoying their banter. As Rossi had said once, Lee was the daughter he’d never had—yet.

“We have an appointment,” he informed me, checking his watch. “In one hour.”

“We do?”

“Uh-huh. I made an executive decision. We’re meeting an architect at the house lot. Harlan Conway, to be exact.”

“Wonderful! I meant to call him earlier but I—”

“Got busy. I had a feeling that would happen, so I went ahead. You okay with that?”

“Love it.” He really wanted this new house, one I would help design and furnish and decorate to my heart’s content, and the knowledge of that swept through me, leaving a warm glow in its wake.

I turned to Lee, who was listening and smiling at us. I guess in some ways, we were like the parents she no longer had. Leaving her to lock up, we left for Calista Sands. Early for our meeting, we sat companionably in the Mustang waiting for Harlan, enjoying the view.

Rossi had recovered from his worries of the morning and leaned back in his seat with a sigh of content. “Look at the sky. It’s as blue as the water. And look at those palm trees over there.”

“They’re beautiful, I agree completely.”

“And look at—”

“This.”

He sat up straight and tore his gaze from the palms to glance over at me. “What’s that?”

“Connie Rae Hawkins’s journal.”

“The girl who died?”

I nodded.

“What are you doing with it?”

“I, ah, borrowed it.”

He frowned. “No euphemisms, Deva. You swiped it.”

“Temporarily,” I said, my tone all oily. “There’s something in it I think you should see.” Ignoring his disapproval, I opened to the page where Stew learned about Connie Rae’s heart and handed the notebook to him. “Read this.”

He did, snapped the book closed and gave it back to me. “Poor kid, but what’s your point in showing me this?”

“Stew Hawkins knew she needed heart surgery.”

“So?”

“He told me he never knew she was ill. Not until the coroner’s report.”

Rossi’s brow knitted together. “Even if you did catch him in a lie, what does that prove? The ME verified the cause of death. The girl succumbed to natural causes.”

“Stew had a reason for lying, and the reason wasn’t a good one. He was hiding something.”

Rossi nodded in that infuriating, look-at-all-angles-before-you-leap nod. “Say he did lie, this book proves nothing. Need I remind you no crime has been committed?”

“What makes you so sure, Rossi? What makes you so sure?”

He never did get to reply. A sleek black Infiniti pulled onto the lot behind us, and a handsome, blond Viking stepped out from behind the wheel.

Harlan Conway in the gorgeous flesh. I’d kind of forgotten how beautiful he was, then his opening salvo brought everything back.

He nodded at us by way of greeting and pointed to Rossi’s beat-up Mustang.

“Your car?”

Rossi nodded, his eyes wary.

“How old is it?”

“Let me put it this way,” Rossi said. “It can vote. That answer your question?”

Harlan shrugged. “The neighbors...”

“What about them?”

“Oh nothing, I just wondered.”

Some things, and some people, never change, but before our meeting deteriorated any further, I asked, “What do you think of the lot, Harlan?”

He glanced around, his keen professional eye not missing a detail. “Narrow. You’ll be limited in what you can build, size-wise, but for something compact, I think it’ll work.”

“I know it will,” Rossi said, leaving no doubt for argument.

I couldn’t speak for Harlan, but as for me, I was totally on the same page as Rossi. He wanted a house here so badly I was determined we would make the lot work. And work supremely well.

“Compact has many meanings, Harlan,” I said, not even attempting to hide the annoyance in my voice. “Let’s discuss that concept before we go any further.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

We stood by the Mustang and watched Harlan back his Infiniti off the lot. Rossi’s happy anticipation had dimmed to a scowl. “You sure the guy’s as good as you thought?”

Deflated, too, by Harlan’s supercilious airs, I nodded grudgingly. “Check out his website. He’s posted some awesome projects. You’ll see. He does brilliant work.”

“I’ve already checked out the site,” Rossi said. “That’s why I called him. But he’s a pain in the butt to deal with.” He peered at me. “Is having him design a house worth putting up with his attitude?”

“Yes and yes. Let me put it this way...did a producer ever fire Marilyn Monroe for being difficult?”

Rossi’s lips curled up. “As an analogy that one has flaws. She
was
fired from her last film, just before her death. But I get your drift. Okay, you’re the designer; I’ll bow to your wisdom in this. With one caveat. Conway deals with the designer, not the detective.”

“Done. I’ll shake on that. But you could help me out with a list of what you want in the house, and what you don’t want. Kind of a guide.”

“I want you in the house, and I don’t want to live in it without you.”

That was even more beautiful than the view. Disregarding any neighbors who might be looking, I flung my arms around him and kissed him until we were both breathless. Finally, reluctantly, we pulled apart. “What do you say we get back in the car?” Rossi said.

“Your legs are wobbly, huh?”

He laughed. “So’s my reputation in the ‘hood.’”

We settled onto the Mustang’s front seat and watched the orange sun sink slowly into the horizon. When the light show ended, I said, “Seriously, Rossi, I really do need to know your preferences. What you like in colors and furnishings and that kind of thing.”

He shook his head. “You know my house in Countryside is Beige City. I have no preferences.”

“None?”

“Well, one. A king-sized bed and dark shades for when we want to sleep late. Maybe one of those thick covers. The kind that’s full of feathers.”

“A duvet?”

“That’s it, and extra pillows.” He smiled a dreamy smile. “A little radio for night music would be nice.”

“How about a central sound system instead?”

His eyes brightened. “That would be great. But only if the controls are on my side of the bed so I can turn it down. And up.” He grinned wickedly.

“I’ll be certain to include every one of those ideas. What about the kitchen?”

“I want one.”

“How many baths?”

“One a day. Sometimes two.”

“All right, you win. I give up. Let’s go home to Surfside and have something to eat.”

“Umm.”

Rossi plainly hadn’t given up, and though I wasn’t overly concerned about the neighbors, nor was he—at least not in the same sense Harlan seemed to be—I figured we needed to do our teenage necking behind closed doors. That was fine with Rossi too.

The next morning he’d already gone for the day and I was about to leave for work when the Tony’s Tiles truck cruised onto the Surfside parking lot and stopped outside my front windows. Mike Hammerjack sat behind the wheel, staring at my door, no doubt checking out the address.

Not good. Not good at all.

He parked and jumped out of the truck dressed for God knew what in shit kickers, tight cutoffs and a black muscle shirt. Not exactly a flag bikini, but a head-swiveler, nonetheless, especially with those tattooed pecs of his.

Now what? Pretend I wasn’t home, or answer the bell and let him in? Neither choice was a viable option. I had to get to work, and I didn’t want him in my home. Bottom line, I didn’t trust him. He’d let Tony’s python loose, hadn’t he? And though I tried to keep an open mind, he
was
a paroled felon.

He wasted no time strutting toward my condo, and I wasted no time grabbing my bag, dashing outside and locking the door behind me.

“Well, there you are,” he said, smiling as he approached. “I wasn’t sure I had the right place.”

“You don’t. How did you get my home address?”

My cool welcome didn’t faze him a bit. “A man has his ways,” he said, shrugging off my question. “Tony’s over at Jake’s Diner having breakfast, so I thought I’d stop by and show you some more of the Help-a-Con furniture. I’ve got a desk in the truck and a couple of chairs.” His brows came together. “You already saw one of the tables.”

Had I? All I remembered was the snakes.

While I wasn’t happy to see Mike at my doorstep, I did need to take a good, hard look at the prison-made pieces before ordering any for my clients. So I followed him over to the pickup without any further protest.

Before he unlocked the back panel doors, I said, “Any surprises in there today?”

A grin cracked his face wide open.

Oh?
Scaring me with a truck full of snakes had been funny, had it? Fuming that he might have set me up that day, I examined the furniture in silence. But I soon got over my snit. The cons had done a marvelous job. The joints on each chair fit smoothly, the mitered desk drawers slid in and out without a single squeak, and best of all, I loved the finishes. No high shine, no glare, just a nice polished effect.

“They’re terrific,” I said. “If everything is this good, I’ll definitely place an order.”

“Now?”

I shook my head. “The answer to that is no.”

“Too bad. I got a message from one of the boys. They’ve been wondering. They don’t like waiting. They wait enough, you know what I mean?”

The hot summer air, heavy with sea salt and humidity, did nothing to cool my irritation and a lot to frizz my hair. Steaming hot and getting hotter by the minute, I lost it and threw caution to the winds.

“Let’s get the record straight,” I said, shifting my bag from one shoulder to the other. “No pun intended, of course.”

He laughed anyway. An accommodating guy, Mike Hammerjack.

“The furniture’s great. No problem there, but I have a place of business, and this isn’t it. So in the future, please remember I do not...
not
...see clients in my home. My phone is unlisted largely for that reason. That means you are trespassing on my privacy. And I don’t like that.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Secondly, I cannot guarantee anything to the men in prison. If possible I’ll be glad to help, but if you’ve made promises—” he looked so taken aback at that, I knew he had, “—I can’t help it. The next time...” He went to speak, but I held up a finger and he stopped. “The next time you need to contact me, call the shop.”

“I hate to see a beautiful lady like you so mad.” He put a hand on my arm.

As if scalded, I jerked it away. “Our acquaintance is strictly business, and that will end if this scene is ever repeated.”

“You’ve got the wrong idea, Mrs. Dunne.”

“No, you have.” I walked away, heart pounding, fully expecting him to do something nasty—leap on my back, knock me to the ground, hit me over the head. But I reached the Audi unscathed and slipped behind the wheel.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I backed out of my slot in the carport, put the car in drive and headed out of the parking lot. Or so I thought. I’d only gone a few feet when coming fast was the panel truck with Tony’s Tiles on the side and Mike Hammerjack at the controls.

With an ear-shattering crash, the truck struck the Audi head-on. The impact whiplashed me backward and then forward. My head struck the windshield with a
crunch
, and out I went like the proverbial light.

* * *

The next thing I knew, a man sitting beside me on the passenger seat was patting my cheeks and cooing my name. When his hand slid down my arm, I opened my lids to a narrow slit.

A few inches away, Mike, his jaw tight, gazed at me with big, blue eyes.

“Mrs. Dunne, are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. I fingered my forehead. A lump the size of Mt. Rushmore had popped out above my left temple. And my right knee hurt more than my head.

Excited voices floated in the air. The crash must have brought out the neighbors. Someone knocked on the driver’s side window. Chip, my next-door neighbor to the rescue. He yanked the door open and peered in, his round face a moon of anxiety.

“Deva, you all right?”

I gave him a cautious nod—even so, the earth tilted on its axis. “Everybody’s asking me that,” I said, trying to convince myself that the world wasn’t spinning overtime.

Chip bent down and glanced across the front seat. “Who are you?” he asked Mike.

“Hammerjack’s the name.”

“You the driver of that truck?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well, you did a number on Deva’s car. This is a private lot, not a speedway. How fast were you going?”

“I’m not sure. My foot slipped off the brake. I guess my driving’s a little rusty.”

“That so?” Chip didn’t sound convinced. I might have moaned, for Chip snapped his attention from Mike back to me. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”

“No, please.” I grasped his wrist.

“From the size of that lump, you have a head injury. You need to get to the hospital and have it looked at.”

“Okay, but no ambulance, please. Let’s not turn this into a big deal.”

Chip frowned, then nodded. “It’ll be faster if I don’t argue, so fine, we’ll do it your way. But first I’m calling the NPD and asking for the lieutenant.”

I definitely moaned that time. Not too thrilled about my association with Mike Hammerjack to begin with, Rossi would be less than thrilled over this accident. The last thing I’d wanted to do was add to his worries, but no way around it, I’d done exactly that.

Mike stirred on the seat next to me. “I better move the truck out of the way.”

Too weary suddenly to talk, I leaned back on the headrest and closed my eyes, aware of a deep throbbing at my temple and a worse pain in my knee. Mike’s hot breath fanned my cheek. “I’m real sorry about all this.”

“I know,” I said. Did I? Was he?

“Before I go, can you tell me something?” he said. “Why’s the big guy calling a lieutenant? This isn’t a crime scene.”

I opened my eyes. Mike’s usually cheerful expression had disappeared, replaced with a scared kind of tension.

“Lieutenant Rossi’s my fiancé,” I said.

“Oh my God.” The color drained from Mike’s face. He took my hand and squeezed it. For emphasis, I guess. “Be sure to tell him this was an accident, will you? Or I could end up back in State.”

My eyes flared open. Mike was desperate...but why? Of course the crash was an accident. My heart skipped a beat. Or had he rammed my car on purpose?

The question was too much for my aching head. With Chip’s help, I eased out of the wounded Audi and slowly limped over to the passenger seat of his Malibu.

Chip’s wife, AudreyAnn, in a pink terry robe and fluffy slippers, waited alongside holding a pencil and a piece of paper.

“Get the truck driver’s information,” Chip told her, nodding at Mike. “License, registration and insurance. Then call a towing service for the Audi. I need to get Deva to the ER.”

Chip slid behind the wheel of the Malibu. If he spoke on the drive to the hospital, I didn’t hear him. I dozed—off and on—as we wove through morning traffic to the Naples Community Hospital. When he pulled up at the ER entrance, Rossi stood waiting with a wheelchair, as grim-faced as I’d ever seen him.

As soon as Chip hit the brake, Rossi yanked open the passenger side door.

“You’re conscious,” he said. No hello. No smile.

“Of course.” I left off “barely.”

He leaned farther into the car. “Chip, you took a chance. Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?”

“This was faster,” Chip replied. “It cut out the argument.”

A wry smile lifted Rossi’s lips. “Say no more, my friend. And thank you. I’ll take her in. The ER staff is expecting her.”

“The ER staff is
expecting
me? What did you do, Rossi, pull rank?”

“You could say that,” he said, helping me into the wheelchair. Chip gave me a farewell buss on the cheek and waved goodbye. Without wasting a minute, Rossi pushed my chair through the automatic doors.

Though the dizziness had settled over me like fog, I did notice the waiting room held only a single man. Satisfied that Rossi wasn’t wheeling me past a roomful of dire emergencies, I relaxed a little, and once inside a curtained cubicle, I lay on the hospital bed with a sigh of gratitude. My head hurt, dammit, and my knee hurt worse. And over and above those concerns another loomed large—a growing realization that the accident should never have happened.

The ER physician, a young resident from the boyish look of him, examined me and ordered a CT scan of my head and an X-ray of my knee. The upshot, several hours later, was that I had suffered a bone bruise on the knee, but despite the blow to the occipital region of my head, no concussion.

A kind of minor miracle, the doc told me. “You have a hard head, lady,” he said, a medical joke with all the freshness of a stale donut.

Still I sent him a grateful smile and went to get out of bed. The spinning started up immediately, and I fell back against the pillow.

“I suggest you go home and rest for the day. See how you feel in the morning before resuming your usual activities.” He paused. “The knee will take a while. Bone bruises are slow to heal. If it bothers you unduly, I suggest you see an orthopedic specialist.”

A handshake and he was gone. A moment later, the cubicle curtain parted again. “Rossi chauffeuring at your service. You’ve been sprung.”

I sat up slowly and, to my relief, nothing spun in front of my eyes. “I’m so sorry for all this.” The tears I’d been holding in leaked out onto my johnny. “You have enough to do without worrying about me.”

“Worrying about you is my main occupation. The department is a poor second to that,” he said, kissing my wet cheeks then handing me a fistful of tissues. “Also I do double duty as a ladies’ maid.” He opened the bedside stand, lifted out my clothes and held up my bra and panties. “This’ll be a first, putting them on instead of taking them off.”

“Rossi, give me my clothes and go find a nurse. A female one.”

With a chuckle, he did, and a half hour later, I was back at Surfside, stretched out on the living room couch with an ice pack on my knee and a pillow under my head. Where I needed to be was Fern Alley, running my business but, truthfully, I couldn’t have driven downtown nor functioned normally if I had to. So I lay there, outwardly calm and inwardly fuming, while Rossi went next door for the information Mike had given AudreyAnn.