“The ladies’ room. It’s a long story.”
Resting his hands on the chair arms, he leaned back against the cushion. “I’ve got time.”
“No dice.” I picked up my coffee cup and had a swig.
He sighed. “All right. You win. Forensics found Ambien in José’s body. Not enough to kill him, but definitely enough to put him under. On one level, I suppose you could call that the good news. The bad news is we need a court order to check prescriptions for Mr. Lopez or for anybody else who might be a person of interest. Court orders take time. The wheels of justice move slowly. I’m talking ox carts here, Deva, so no more quizzing.” He leaned forward, hands on knees. “Now let’s hear about this guy, and don’t leave anything out.”
I held up a finger. “Not so fast. Tell me if I’m on target. Someone drugged José, probably dragged him out to the balcony, fit the noose around his neck, lifted him onto that blue stool then heaved him over the railing.” I put down my empty cup. “Is that how you see it?”
He nodded, not a world-class nod, but a nod nevertheless. “I’m beginning to. Your scenario would account for the scuff marks along the balcony floor. They led from Vega’s shop to his place of death.”
“Scuff marks? You didn’t mention that before.”
“Correct. But I have now. And to answer your earlier question, I do trust you, but you have to guarantee that anything I tell you won’t leave this room.”
“Of course not. Guaranteed.”
“Good.” He exhaled and settled deeper into the club chair. “We have a hypothetical cause of death. A probable murder. But as of now, we do not have a firm suspect.”
“But José was blackmailing his so-called friend.”
Rossi nodded. “That makes Mr. Lopez a person of interest. Not necessarily the guilty party.”
“Have you interrogated him?”
I was pushing here, and I knew it, but after one of those hesitations, Rossi said, “I questioned him. Politely.”
“And? God, this is like pulling teeth.”
“I let him go.”
“With another warning not to leave town without informing you.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s it?”
Shifting his ankle back to his knee again, he drummed a finger on the chair arm. “To be blunt, Deva, you’re out of line. I shouldn’t be telling you a thing. Understand? Not a thing. Furthermore you don’t understand police procedure.”
“Okay, I’ll change the subject. What about Interpol?”
Rossi shook his head, but he answered me, figuring, I guess, that like pulling teeth, the faster he got rid of the pain the better. “We haven’t heard. So until we do—”
“Lopez is a free man.”
Rossi simply nodded. “Now it’s my turn to listen. Your turn to talk.”
So I told him about being locked in the toilet while Austin banged the stall doors all around me. Rossi was not amused, God bless him, and not at all convinced that Austin had meant me no harm. But as I related the details of the incident, I had one of those aha! moments, an epiphany really. With the clarity of sunlight on water, I realized Austin had tried to tell me that he loved me—and that he knew who killed José.
Chapter Sixteen
After Rossi left for the station the next morning, I drove to work in humid, steamy air perfumed with sea salt and late-blooming gardenias. Languid as odalisques, palm fronds hung limp against their trunks, waiting for a Gulf breeze to stir them to life. This was September, officially fall, but subtropical Naples didn’t seem to know that.
I parked in the lot behind Fern Alley and, though early, found Lee and Paulo inside the shop waiting for me. Eyes shining, Lee leaped up from her seat behind the bureau plat.
“We’ve been dying to talk to you, Deva. We have something to tell you.”
Lee had on one of the little black dresses that showed off her blond hair and delicate coloring to perfection. Paulo, in a denim work shirt and paint-streaked boots and jeans, looked ready for a hard day’s work.
He rose off the settee and stood beside Lee, resting a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve hatched a plan.”
“Oh?” I stashed the tote behind the sales counter and waited.
“Lee told me about the Showhouse. We want to help.”
“But—”
“I’m going to paint that kitchen for you.”
“No! You’re an artist not a house painter. I can’t allow it.”
He smiled a slow, easy Jamaican smile that revealed his white, even teeth and caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle. “What’s the matter, mon, don’t you trust me?”
The same question I’d asked Rossi last night. And I gave Paulo the same answer Rossi gave me. “Of course I do. That’s not the issue.”
He and Lee grinned at each other. I loved the sight.
“Then it’s settled,” Paulo said. “Also we’re paying for the paint supplies.”
“No, you’re not!”
“Deva, it’s the beginning of payback time. For sending Lee to me in Paris. You have to let us do this.”
The smiles had left their young faces. To refuse further would be insulting. I fell silent, touched beyond belief by their gesture. Before I could think of a response, Paulo said, “The timing’s perfect. I just finished a commission and won’t be starting another portrait until next week. I’m yours for five whole days. What do you say you put me to work?”
Eyes damp, I nodded. “You’re on.”
Leaving Lee to run the shop, Paulo and I drove to Sprague Mansion. Chairwoman Marian Stilwell had promised that a committee member would keep the house open from nine to five every day. Today as promised, the front door stood ajar, and inside, the rooms were bright with morning sunlight. All except the kitchen. At the end of the hall, it lay silent as a tomb and dark—depressingly dark.
Paulo fumbled at the switch by the door. Two forlorn bulbs, one over the sink and one dangling from a chain in the center of the ceiling, shed weak pools of light.
I strode over to the windows and snapped up the dingy shades. One broke off its roller and crashed to the floor. In the hot morning light, the room looked worse than I remembered.
Paulo let out a whistle that said more than a speech.
“It’s not too late to back out.”
“Not on your life. This’ll be fun.” He leaned against a counter, his keen artist’s eyes taking in every obsolete detail. “Lee told me what you had in mind, but now that we’re here, why don’t you run it past me again?”
Plunking down the tote, I hoisted myself onto a countertop. “I’m going for a vintage look. Upscale vintage with lots of atmosphere.” I pointed at the tin ceiling. “Starting with that.”
“An ugly duckling you’ll morph into a swan?”
“Exactly. Nobody installs tin ceilings anymore, but anaglyptic paper is hot.”
Paulo’s brows meshed.
“Embossed paper that imitates a tin ceiling. We’ve got the real McCoy, why not make the most of it? So copper-color paint on the ceiling with a black overglaze sponged on for drop-dead glamour.”
He nodded. “I can see that working.” He upped his chin at the bead board that rose three-quarters of the way along each wall. “How about the wainscoting?”
“A soft cream. Benjamin Moore’s Linen White.” I opened one of the cupboards next to my shoulder and quickly closed it. A damp, moldy odor had wafted out. “We’ll remove these upper cabinet doors. Have open shelving à la Martha Stewart and change out the hardware on the lower ones.”
“What color on the upper walls?”
“A vivid olive. Farrow & Ball’s Saxon Green would be perfect. It’s pricey. I’ll pay for that.”
“No, you won’t.”
Hands on hips, I stared across at him
. “You left for Paris a kid and you came back a CEO.”
He laughed. “And don’t you forget it. Okay, what else?”
I eased off the counter and tapped a toe on the worn linoleum. “This has to go, but we’re in luck. There’s a hardwood floor underneath. When you’re through, I’ll have it sanded and stained walnut. The soapstone counter tops are keepers too. All they need is a little honing to bring back the original finish.” I sighed. “But the sink is hopeless. We need a new Kohler farmhouse sink.”
“So far, very good,” Paulo said.
“I sure hope so. I can’t afford to screw up.” I studied the empty space, trying to decide. “Actually what’s dictating the design is a gorgeous burgundy stove. It should be placed where people will see it as soon as they walk in, but custom installation between cabinets is out of my price range.”
Paulo nodded, understanding my dilemma. “So what do you plan to do?”
“Make the stove a stand-alone. Place it between the two windows where the light will fall on it and make it shine.”
“That’ll work. You said nobody will be doing any actual cooking in here, so the effect is what matters, correct?”
“Yes.” With his artist’s eye, Paulo visualized my solution, and from his enthusiasm, I could tell he approved. I mentally exhaled a sigh of relief. Deva Dunne Interiors’ reputation depended on this being a knockout showroom, and Paulo’s approval meant a lot.
“You’ll need something to balance the visual weight of the stove,” he said.
He really did understand.
“That’s where the refrigerator comes in,” I said. “A panel-ready model.”
“Panel ready?”
“A fridge made to receive a custom front. A pair of old doors, shutters maybe, or confessional doors salvaged from a church. Stained walnut like the floor, they’ll lend visual weight and help tie the room together. For showbiz pow, we need an island too. Right in the middle of the room. In walnut with a marble top. I’ve seen something that would be perfect—”
“Oh, so here you are, Deva,” a deep voice boomed. “Just where your shop said you’d be.” Paulo and I, both startled, glanced over at the open doorway.
Raúl Lopez.
As urbane and unperturbed as ever, smiling at me and nodding at Paulo, he wheeled in a dolly that held two large cardboard cartons. “For you,” he said, “a choice. Mahogany fans. One with a brass light. One without. What is your pleasure?”
“With,” I said. “The room needs the extra light.”
Raúl nodded and perused the situation. “The fan light alone won’t be enough.” He turned to me, all smiles, all charm. “Would you like wall sconces? I’d be happy to donate them.”
“Marvelous! Two in Tiffany glass would be perfect. Deep-colored glass. Burgundy, green, gold.”
“I’ll check the catalogs. I’m sure there’s something.”
“And at my expense, a copper-toned pendant light for over the stove,” I said.
He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a business card and a pencil. Shades of Rossi. After scribbling some numbers on the back, he handed the card to me allowing his fingers to brush my palm. An accident?
“My home number. If there’s anything, anything at all I can help you with, don’t hesitate to call. At any time.” He cleared his throat with a little cough. “Any friend of Lieutenant Rossi is a friend of mine.”
He took one of the cartons off the dolly and stood it in a corner out of the way. “When you’re ready for this, let me know, and I’ll personally see to the installation.”
With a two-fingered salute for Paulo and a parting smile for me, he wheeled the dolly with the remaining carton out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Paulo stood there grinning from ear to ear. “Looks like you’ve made a conquest, Deva.”
I shook my head. “Your face will crack if you keep smiling like that. Didn’t you hear him say, ‘Any friend of Rossi’s is a friend of mine’? He was just being pleasant. Besides, you haven’t met his wife.”
What I didn’t mention was that with the specter of deportation or a murder trial hanging over his head, Raúl was probably hedging his bets by being nice to the detective’s girlfriend. But how had he learned about Rossi and me? Who could have told him?
Chapter Seventeen
Once we had Paulo settled with the supplies he needed from Gifford’s Paints, including a folding stepladder so he could reach that tin ceiling, I left him to do his thing. Before I was halfway down the hallway, he was whistling Bob Marley’s “One Love” off-key.
His song made me smile, and for the first time believe the project might turn out well after all.
I’d gotten as far as Third Street South when deep inside the tote my cell rang. With one hand on the wheel, I tried digging the phone out with the other. No luck. As usual it had dropped to the bottom of the bag under all the other stuff. I pulled over to the side of the road. The tote was big enough for a two-week vacation. Time I downsized. But I’d said that before.
On the fifth or sixth ring, I blurted a terse, “Yes?”
“Deva, honey, is that you?”
“Imogene, what can I do for you?”
“Nothing today. I just wanted to say thank you. Harlan loves the way the house is shaping up. When I told him I’m putting cypress wood on one of the walls, he said that’s exactly what he would do. Imagine! And I’m not having a problem talking to him either, like I thought I would. Isn’t that wonderful? Though truthfully we don’t talk all that much. If you know what I mean.” She giggled then lowered her voice. “He just went out to the car to get my sweater. He’s so sweet. He keeps asking if I’m cold.”
Uh-oh. “What are you wearing today, Imogene?”
“Remember those shorts I had on the other day?”
Wary, I ventured a “Yes.”
“Well, he loved them on me.”
Of course he did. They were practically a belt.
“So figuring he likes denim, I went out and bought a denim skirt. I’m wearing it with my red tube top.” Her voice tensed. “I hope you agree red and blue look good together.”
The red tube top. Egads. “Yes, they do.”
“See! I’m learning, Deva.”
A sudden burst of laughter floated through the line. “Where are you? Sounds like a party.”
“No. That’s another thing I wanted to tell you. We’re having lunch at Alice Hightower’s across from the Government Center. We had to go to the sheriff’s office earlier and sign our witness statements.”
That had me grasping the phone closer to my ear. “Witness to what?”
“You’ll never believe this, but yesterday while we were out on Harlan’s boat, his line caught on something heavy. He thought it was a tarpon or some other kind of big fish, and he reeled in and reeled in for all he was worth. And guess what? It was a dead body. I never saw anything so gruesome in my whole life. The fishes had it all chewed up. And somebody had chained a car door and a tire to the remains. I didn’t sleep all night thinking about it.”
I nearly dropped the phone. “You found Buddy?”
“I don’t know what the poor man’s name was, but Harlan thinks he was murdered by the mob. Oh, here’s Harlan now. I have to go.”
The phone went dead.
So Imogene of all people had found Buddy Monroe’s body. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, she was a client of mine, and coincidence or not, I’d tell Rossi anyway. When I saw him. With two open cases to solve, no telling when he’d be free. For now I’d go back to the shop and relieve Lee for a while, then head up to the mall to see Beatriz about that kitchen island.
* * *
Lights blazed in the Galleria. The moment I walked in, Beatriz greeted me warmly, kissing my cheek and hugging me tight, the bones in her arms as
fragile as birds’ wings. Her silver hair was as smooth as ever, but her face bore deeper lines. In the few days since José’s death, she’d lost weight—weight she could ill afford to lose. Yet with her usual flair, she had tucked a tiny purple orchid in her lapel in a brave attempt to lighten her otherwise somber appearance.
“José’s body was released,” she said. “He’s mine to keep.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “A pile of ashes.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “I’ve chosen his urn, his favorite from our Majolica collection. But no funeral. I couldn’t endure one. Not with his killer on the loose.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I heard what happened to the florist, Buddy Monroe. A terrible end.”
“Yes. Grotesque.”
She glanced over at Hugo, who was busy with a customer. “I’m afraid to be alone. So Hugo stays with me. He sleeps in my house. He eats at my table. He’s like a son.” Her expression warmed as she gazed at him. “For his sake alone, I keep the shop open.” The tears wetting her eyes escaped, coursing down her face, leaking onto the lapels of her black jacket.
“Here,” I said, giving her a handful of tissues. “Blow. Before you drown your orchid.”
She took them and managed a wobbly smile. “You said you had a favor to ask, my dear. For a good cause. Tell me.”
“I came to borrow. Not a cup of sugar. An altar.”
“Dios mío. Whatever for?”
“To use as a kitchen island. In a charity Showhouse. It’s to help homeless people.” Wanting to tempt her, I added, “The Galleria’s name would be on the list of contributors. That might be good for business.”
“And would do some good too. I say yes. But I have only one altar for sale. From the Ursuline convent in Bogotá.”
“That’s the one I had in mind. Would you loan it to the Showhouse for a month?”
“But of course.” Her expression grew solemn. “José adored that piece. He bought it from the good sisters. Didn’t even barter with them.” She leaned in closer. “A woman in a nun’s garb is still a woman with a nose for a bargain. But men have no understanding of that.”
As if despairing at the futility of it all, she raised her arms, then dropped them to her sides. “So José, he paid top dollar. But the altar is beautiful.” She walked over to it and, bending down, stroked the image of a woman carved into one of the panels—the Madonna? “For this alone, the price he paid was worth it.”
Rooms to Die For Page 9
