I checked my hair in the mirror—frizzy, nothing new there—ducked into a stall and stiffened. What was that noise? Had the outer door to the restroom opened? Over the rush of water, I couldn’t be sure. Then a stall door clicked shut. Yes, someone had come in. Another stall opened and slammed. Another. Strange, no heels clicking on the tiled floor.
Bang.
I zipped up my pants and smoothed down my silk tee.
Bam.
The slamming had become louder. Whoever had entered the ladies room was on a hunt. For what? A forgotten package? A handbag? Or was she looking for someone?
Bam.
Whoever she was, she was no woman to tangle with, and a trickle of uneasiness inched down my spine. Isolated from the atrium’s foot traffic, the ladies’ restroom sat discreetly at the end of a short corridor. If a person yelled for help, chances were no one would hear. But who said I needed help?
Bam.
I needed help.
Plunging a hand into the tote, I fumbled for the cell. Like always, it had dropped to the bottom of the bag, under the car keys, the billfold, the sunglasses, the cosmetic kit...I groped around, but my fingers didn’t connect with a phone.
Bam.
Where was it? Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. Oh no. After taking a call, I’d dropped the cell on the Audi passenger seat. Great. I couldn’t yell and be heard, and I couldn’t phone.
Well, I was probably overreacting anyway. I’d just stroll out of the stall like nothing could be wrong and make a beeline for the exit. That still left the little anteroom to get through—the sound buffer space that kept flushing noises from penetrating the mall’s hushed luxury.
Screwing up my courage, I put a shaky hand on the stall lock and glanced down. In the space under the door, hairy ankles rose out of white athletic socks and what looked like a pair of size-twelve sneakers.
“Pretty lady,” he whispered.
Oh God, Austin. I sank onto the toilet seat, gripping the tote to my chest as if it were a life vest, praying someone else would come in so I could scream for help.
“Pretty lady, I know you’re in there. So come out.” He pulled on the stall handle, rattling the door on its hinges.
Didn’t any other woman in the mall have to pee? I let go of the tote to swipe my sweaty palms on my knees. Another rattle.
“You’re like everybody else. You won’t talk to me. I want you to talk to me.” His voice had risen an octave.
The stall door looked sturdy enough, but if enraged, a guy with an athlete’s build could probably rip it off the hinges. Was Austin enraged?
He rattled the door again. “Why won’t you talk to me?” he asked his voice shrill.
Okay, showtime. Sitting in scared silence wasn’t helping. “Austin,” I ventured. “Is that you?”
“Yes! Yes, it’s me. It’s me!”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I can’t tell you through a door.”
“Why not?’
“Someone might hear.”
Who? God?
“I’ve got a present for you,” he said.
“Another one? You already gave me a quarter.”
“I know. But this present is better. Come out and you’ll see.”
“Why don’t you wait and give it to me later? At the Library maybe.”
“No, now.”
“But someone might come in, and you’re not supposed to be here. You could get into a peck of trouble.”
“I know,” he said, contrite as a naughty boy. “But no one can come in. I put a chair under the door handle.”
Chapter Fourteen
My blood pressure hit the ceiling above the stall. Heart pounding in my ears, I thought, what an obituary this would make: Interior designer found dead in a toilet.
I couldn’t let that happen. No matter what I had to do, I couldn’t die in this room in that way. If I had to fight, I would. I had my tote. I could hit him with it, then make a mad dash for the door, scream, scratch, kick him in the groin.
Who was I kidding?
Mentally Austin might be challenged in ways I didn’t understand, but he had the toned body of an Olympic athlete. I wouldn’t have a chance against him. Shoulders sagging, I couldn’t muster the pep to get off the toilet and battle my way out.
“Pretty lady, are you still there?”
I couldn’t fly, and I couldn’t swim, so where else would I be? But the question posed so hesitantly spoke volumes about Austin. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to kill me. Maybe he did just want a friendly chat.
I had two choices, stay in here till someone forced the outer door open—no telling when that might happen—or take a chance and leave the stall.
While I sat on the john trying to decide, he whispered, “If I give you your present, will you come out?”
Did he have something to give me other than a knife in the ribs? Did he really mean me no harm?
“I’d love to have a present, Austin. There’s a space under the door. Can you slide it through there?”
“I think so.”
God only knew what he was about to shove along the floor, and my pulse shot up as fast as a jet fighter in combat.
Hugging the tote tight, I stared at the space in front of my feet and took in deep breaths of the stale air. A moment only and a cylinder of green florist’s paper slid inside the booth. I leaned over and picked it up. Nestled in a cocoon of ferns lay a single red rose.
Oh my. I stared at the blossom as if I had never seen one before. A red rose, the symbol of love. Did Austin understand the significance of his gift? Could he actually be telling me something?
“Do you like it?”
“Very much, Austin. Now I want to give you a present.”
“You do?” Astonishment that anyone would want to gift him tinged his voice and tugged at my heart. “Yes, I want to take you to the Library and buy us both a soda. Would you like that?”
“Together, you mean?”
“Yes. We’ll sit together at one of the little round tables. What do you say?”
“You’ll talk to me?”
“Of course.” A realization hit me with the force of light. This man had never intended to harm me, and he didn’t now. Without a tremor, I unlocked the stall and walked out. He stood in front of the bank of sinks in his running gear, not smiling, not frowning, expressionless and patiently waiting.
I sniffed the odorless rose. “Beautiful,” I murmured, and reaching out a hand, I led him into the anteroom. A perfect gentleman, he removed the chair from under the handle and held the door open for me.
Freedom. I stepped out, gulping in the cooler atrium air and strolled toward the Library. Austin followed a step or two behind. I glanced over my shoulder.
“Come walk beside me,” I said.
He shook his head. A few paces outside the café he stopped. “I can’t go in there and sit down. I never sit down in there. They don’t like me in there.”
“But you’ll be with me.”
“They still won’t like it.” He reached a hand into his shorts pocket. “I have something else for you. It’s not a present though. I found it on the blue stool near that man. The one on the rope.” He removed something from his pocket and held it out to me. “It’s another flower.”
I extended a hand and he placed a shriveled pink carnation in my open palm.
“A boutonniere,” I said, but Austin didn’t hear. He was already running toward the mall entrance as if he were in a race with the devil himself.
Chapter Fifteen
With the shriveled flower in my hand, I slowly made my way to the reception area. For what it might be worth, I’d save the carnation to show to Rossi. Although I knew he’d pooh-pooh its significance—until I told him tha
t Oliver Kent, the mall’s owner, wore a fresh boutonniere every day.
Even so, Rossi would growl that didn’t prove anything.
“I’m not offering you proof,” I’d say, “just a strange man’s clue.”
As the scene played out in my mind, I went over to say goodbye to Sandra at the visitors’ desk. “Have you heard the news, Deva?” she asked after directing a well-dressed couple to the Ralph Lauren store.
I shook my head. “What news?”
“Another shop owner’s been killed.”
“You mean a mall shop owner?”
“Yes, I do.” She pumped her head up and down. “Wait till the Naples Daily hears about this. It’s so weird.”
I dropped the carnation in the tote along with the rose. “Weird? How?”
She leaned forward over her desk, glanced left then right. “The body was found in the Gulf, chained to automobile parts. You know, like a mob killing.”
“What do you mean, automobile parts?”
“Well, the way I heard it, a car fender was strapped to what was left of him...what the sharks hadn’t gotten to.” She shuddered. “A tire was chained onto the body, too. And that’s not all. They found a hood ornament hanging on him like a necklace. A Jaguar.” She shook her head. “Can you believe anybody would do such a thing? It’s so gross.”
“I’ll say. Do you know who the victim was?”
“Buddy Monroe. You must know him. He ran Buddy’s Buds, the flower shop over there on the other side of the atrium.”
Although I knew the shop’s location, she pointed across the marble expanse to where Oliver Kent bought his daily boutonniere and where Austin had probably obtained the single red rose. How sad that anyone would want to kill Buddy of all people, a gentle, soft-spoken guy who sold flowers for a living.
Puzzled, I asked, “Who told you all this grisly stuff?” If the media hadn’t gotten wind of Buddy’s bizarre death, how had Sandra?
“Oliver Kent, a few minutes ago. The police contacted him. He was waiting here to meet a lieutenant. The same one who investigated José Vega’s death.”
“Oh?”
“They’re in Buddy’s Buds now, talking to the floral arranger.”
Maybe Rossi would find the carnation of interest after all.
“I wonder—” Sandra’s phone cut off whatever she was about to say. “Just a moment,” she mimed and, picking up, murmured something into the receiver in her best faux British voice—the one she reserved for visitors and clients.
Finished with the call, she turned back to me. “I was going to say I wonder if that lieutenant is married or engaged or anything?”
“No, he isn’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“Uh-huh. So I’ve heard.”
“I’m surprised. He’s so hot.”
“You think?”
“I know. And I love, love, the Hawaiian shirts he wears. Have you seen those shoulders of his?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And those eyes. They penetrate.” She shivered and hugged herself with her arms. “I’m hoping he’ll interrogate me on the way out. After all, I’ve known Buddy Monroe for years.”
“You know who killed him?”
“Of course not.” Indignant, Sandra turned to answer the phone again, and I made my escape. No need to bother Rossi while he investigated poor Buddy’s death. He’d call as soon as he could, and in the meantime, I had a business to run. Before it ran downhill.
Hot. Hmm.
* * *
That afternoon Lee and I finally got in some quality girl talk, and I told her my plan for the Showhouse as well as the problems it presented. In between waiting on drop-in customers, we ordered inventory from several catalogues—Halloween gift items and cartons of Thanksgiving tabletop decorations. We ended the day on a high note. Sales figures for the week looked good; the summer lag had ended.
On the way home I stopped by Publix Market for eggs, a bag of spring greens and a crusty loaf. Dinner tonight would be salad, an omelet and garlic bread.
Ah, the lights were on. Rossi was back. Mr. Hottie with the penetrating eyes and...”Hello, I’m home.”
“At last,” he said stepping out of the bedroom.
“Actually I’m early tonight,” I said, dropping my packages on a chair.
“There’s no such thing as early where you’re concerned. I’ve been waiting for ten full minutes. It’s been hell.”
“God, you say the most perfect things.”
“I know.” He laughed and began kissing me.
* * *
Later, much later, after proving Sandra absolutely right, Rossi helped me clear away the dinner dishes. We carried our coffee into the living room. As usual, he said very little about the new case he was investigating. I told him what I’d learned about Buddy Monroe’s murder.
He huffed out a sigh and in his lecturing pose—one ankle resting on a knee—said, “We’re not sure it’s murder. The department doesn’t label a death a homicide without proof. And so far, we have no proof. There’s something else too. Forensics found one of those medic alert bracelets on the body. That’s how we could ID it so fast.”
“An ID bracelet was left on the body? What’s that mean? A sloppy killer?”
“Maybe.” He gave me a noncommittal shrug, his signal that true confessions had ended.
But I wasn’t ready to let go of the bone. “Why won’t you admit the way Buddy’s body was found was horrible?”
“I am admitting it. I’m just not ready to admit foul play was involved.”
I put down my coffee untasted. “How could it not be foul play?”
“We don’t have all the facts to prove or disprove—”
“Well, you’ve got the ones that count. Jaguar parts strapped all over him. Who does that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Poor Rossi. He had his work cut out for him. Two mall shop owners dead under mysterious circumstances and as of yet no major leads in either case.
My first concern was for my dear friend Beatriz—and yes, José too—but on a less noble plane, I was worried about the effect of all the negative publicity on the mall. As a design resource, it was irreplaceable. Nothing else in southwest Florida compared to it in range of products and services under one roof. If the Naples Design Mall collapsed, designers like me would have to travel across the state to the Dania Design Center in Miami. Another fabulous resource, but far from convenient for us Neapolitans.
And what of the other shop owners? Most of them had invested their life’s savings in their businesses. If the mall went under, they’d go with it.
For a whole raft of reasons, Rossi had to solve these crimes. And I had to do all I could to help him—whether he wanted me to or not. Not.
Before he could change the subject, I asked, “While we’re talking about the cases, can you tell me what you found on that blue stool? Any prints that made you suspicious?”
Rossi shook his head. “None that stand out. It’s obviously a useful object that a lot of people have used. I don’t think the prints will be of much help.”
Disappointed, I pushed a little more. “So tell me about José. Were there drugs in his body?”
He shot me one of those raised-eyebrow, I’m-taking-the-Fifth looks.
“Come on, ‘fess up. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”
“The chief.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
Despite my prodding Rossi sat there as uncommunicative as a statue of Buddha, controlling his body language like the pro he was. Always when on a case, he remained stoic and sotto voce, hiding every element of surprise that came his way. Tonight was no exception. Giving little to nothing away, he guarded his glances, his expression, even his pos
ture. Nothing got to Rossi, or so he would have you believe, but he had one flaw in his deliberate self-control—one I had no intention of telling him about. When unsure of the best answer, or whether to answer at all, he hesitated.
And he was hesitating now.
“Ha! I knew it,” I said.
“Knew what?” The fox.
“Knew José didn’t commit suicide. So what did forensics find? Poison?”
“No, not poison.” Rossi smiled, one of those small secret smiles that telegraph superior knowledge. No question he was being a complete prick.
“Rossi, this isn’t just idle curiosity. I’ve known Beatriz and José since I first moved to Naples. They’ve been business acquaintances and more. They’ve been my friends. I’m sorry José did what he did, but for Beatriz’s sake, I want to help if I can. She’s a wonderful woman and she’s suffering.”
His eyes narrowed as he listened to my plea. I was playing on his sympathy, and he knew it. But everything I’d said was true, and he knew that too.
“Don’t you trust me?” I asked.
“That’s not the point. You are not entitled to privileged information.”
“Oh, yeah?” I raised an eyebrow. “I should have asked you an hour ago. In bed. You probably would have spilled your guts.”
He laughed. “I did.”
“Very funny.” He loved playing the cat-and-mouse game, but I had a tiebreaker up my sleeve and said, “I’ll talk if you will.”
“We are talking.”
“I mean talk.” I jumped off the couch and grabbed the tote off the club chair where I’d dropped it. Somewhat droopy, the rose still nestled in its green tissue cylinder and, after a little more digging, I found the carnation, brown now and withered way beyond shriveled. I held it out to Rossi.
“What’s that?” he asked without reaching for it.
“A boutonniere. The same guy who gave me the rose, gave me this after he released me.”
Rossi shot upright in his seat.
Uh-oh. Me and my big mouth.
“Released you from what?”
Sandra had been correct about his eyes. They did penetrate.
Rooms to Die For Page 8
