She straightened and gestured to Hugo. He excused himself from a customer and came over to her. “The Ursuline altar is not available for purchase,” she said.
His dark eyes grew wide. “You’ve sold it?”
“No, my dear. I wish I had, but the chance of that happening is remote. No wonder the shop is failing. Who wants an altar? Candelabra, yes. Santos, of course. But an altar?”
“Then why is it not available?”
“Deva has asked that we loan it to a good cause, and I have said yes.”
“Really? Are you sure? It’s very valuable.”
“I know that, my son.”
“Suppose the movers drop it? And what of protection against theft? There’s also climate control to consider.”
Beatriz laughed her tinkling laugh, the first in days, I felt sure. “What does any of that matter? I have given my word.”
Hugo shrugged. “In that case, of course, I have no more to say.”
“Don’t despair, my dear. The loan is for a month only. While the altar’s gone, I’ll bring in a treasure from home to replace it.”
“That would be good,” he said, and with a bow, he left us to return to his customer who was examining an eighteenth-century Spanish chair in incised mahogany.
“Poor boy, he doesn’t understand,” Beatriz said. “He fears for the shop and will not believe our future is doomed. But there’s no way I can continue.”
She looked so demoralized, I said, “Come down to the Library with me and share a pot of tea. Hugo can manage alone for a while.”
Frankly, I was embarrassed. Maybe I’d been wrong to ask for that prize possession, even for a good cause.
Beatriz must have sensed my dismay, for in the elevator on the way down to the atrium she squeezed my hand and murmured, “Not to fret, Deva.”
“No, of course not.” But I was fretting. I was sorry the Galleria wasn’t doing well and hoped a few weeks without the altar wouldn’t sound its death knell.
As we stepped onto the atrium floor, Oliver Kent and Claudia Lopez, laughing and talking like intimate friends, were waiting for the up elevator. Their smiles faded when they saw us.
“What is going on here?” Beatriz asked Oliver, blocking his entrance onto the elevator. “A second shopkeeper has been found dead.”
Oliver shrugged. “People drown. I can’t control that.”
A metronome, Beatriz’s index finger waved back and forth under Oliver’s nose. “The flower seller did not drown, any more than José hanged himself. A murderer is on the loose. Maybe more than one. This place is not safe.”
“You’re hysterical, Mrs. Vega,” Oliver said, trying to brush by us. “Now please let us pass.”
“No,” I said, refusing to step aside. “Mrs. Vega is not hysterical. She’s frightened. And something is going on around here.”
“Hysteria and fear are one and the same. Now please excuse us,” Oliver said.
Frozen-faced, Claudia pushed forward and entered the elevator without speaking. Could be she’d heard of Beatriz’s accusation that Raúl had killed José. But if disturbed now, she hadn’t been a few minutes earlier. She’d seemed completely carefree, as if her husband’s pending fate didn’t bother her a bit. Of course, I could have been misreading the signs. Either way, I reminded myself, it was none of my business. Or was it? I wondered as I glanced over at Beatriz’s ashen little face.
Later, reinforced by tea and a few finger sandwiches, she relaxed a bit, and we chatted about old times when she and José were young and in love. In these moments of memory she forgave him for blackmailing his countryman, but then the bitterness returned, and she slumped into her chair and back into her dark mood.
Several of the mall shops were featuring fall sales, so the Library was more crowded than usual. From the corner of my eye, I spied Austin standing against a wall, drinking his usual bottle of water. If he saw me, he didn’t let on, and when I looked over again, he had disappeared.
Planning to go back to Fern Alley for the afternoon, I walked Beatriz to the elevator and hugged her goodbye. A quick air kiss to Phil the doorman and I hurried out to the Audi parked on the far end of the lot. Despite all the media hype about the dual deaths, business at the mall was bustling. I guess a good sale trumped fear every time.
I never saw it coming. As fast as a stroke of lightning, a sudden blow struck the side of my head. Knocked senseless, I fell to the ground face-first, and the world so bright a moment earlier turned black.
* * *
“Pretty lady.”
I’d heard that voice before, and those words
“Pretty lady.”
For some reason, I was lying on the hardest bed in the world. Where had my pillow gone?
Someone patted my arm, the touch gentle, comforting. I wanted to go back to sleep, but the bed was too hard. I opened my eyes. Omigod. Memory flooded back like a tsunami. Wide awake, I tried to get up but couldn’t. My cheek, crushed against the tarmac, felt sticky, and the beat of some strange, throbbing music pounded in my head.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
I opened an eye. A man crouched next to me, his face nearly on a level with mine.
“Austin?”
He nodded.
“Someone hurt me. Go tell the man at the door.”
“I can’t. He doesn’t like me.”
“For me, Austin. Do it for me. Please.”
Chapter Eighteen
Like an invalid, I lay stretched out on the couch with Nana Dunne’s Aran Islands shawl keeping me warm. Rossi set the living room lamps on dimmers and pulled up a straight-backed chair to be close to me.
As pale as I’d ever seen him, he took my hand and stroked it softly. “How’s the pain?”
“I don’t have any,” I lied.
He arched an eyebrow, not buying my answer but not challenging it either. “Feel up to talking? I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course. But first I have one for you. Promise you’ll tell me the truth?”
“Certainly.” He cleared his throat. “If at all possible.” That was so like Rossi. Always hedging his bets.
“Did the surgeon shave my head?” I fingered the padded bandage on my scalp, a few inches behind my right ear.
“A small area only. Just enough to give him access to the wound. He had to put in ten stitches.”
I slumped farther into the sofa pillows. “Bald. That’s what I thought.”
He leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Not to worry. The hair will grow back. You’re lucky that blow didn’t give you anything worse than a mild concussion. And just so you’ll know, the doc said to wake you up every few hours tonight.”
“To make sure I’m not unconscious?”
Rossi nodded.
“You won’t get much sleep that way.”
“I’ll get enough. Now, if you’re up to it, tell me about your day. Who you were with and what you talked about. Start from the beginning.”
Chilled for some reason, I snuggled under the shawl and tried to remember. “I saw Lee and Paulo this morning. Then Raúl Lopez at the Sprague Mansion. He was as charming as ever, but before he left, he said something that surprised me.”
“Which was?” From his shirt pocket, Rossi removed his notebook. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he slept with it. Pencil poised, he waited.
“Raúl said ‘Any friend of Lieutenant Rossi is a friend of mine.’ But his tone implied he knew we were more than friends. I also got the feeling you’re the reason he’s donating fixtures to the Showhouse.”
“So together, you and I are a force for good.” Rossi was making light of the situation, but I could tell he was surprised our relationship was such an open book. “Talk to anyone else?” he asked, coming back to the main subject in his usual true
bulldog fashion.
“Beatriz Vega and Hugo, her assistant. Beatriz and I had tea together. She’s loaning me an altar.”
“A what?”
“A convent altar for the Showhouse.”
His brow furrowed. “I won’t even go there.”
“A funny thing though...Hugo objected. Beatriz said he’s worried about the shop going out of business. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for the loaner. It had Hugo all upset and then Beatriz too.”
Rossi scribbled in his pad before looking over at me. “Feeling all right?”
I nodded and regretted it. The room spun for a second before lurching back into place.
“Anyone else?”
“Yes, Oliver Kent and Claudia Lopez. Laughing and talking together like they didn’t have a worry in the world. I think they’re tight. But who knows? Maybe they just stimulate each other intellectually.”
“Like us?”
“Is that what we’ve got going?”
He laughed and that made me feel good. Since picking me up at the hospital, he’d been worried and strained, and I hated seeing him so stressed.
“Oliver isn’t one of my favorites. When Beatriz told him the two unexplained deaths had her scared, he brushed her off. Claudia ignored us too. Other than a few hellos and goodbyes, those were the only people I spoke to today.”
Rossi raised an ankle to his knee and rested the notebook on it. The move pulled his pant leg taut over his thigh. I wanted to reach out and stroke him but figured I wasn’t in shape to start something I couldn’t finish, so I resisted the impulse.
“What about the guy who found you?” he asked. “The runner?”
“Austin? We just exchanged a few words. He did a very brave thing, going up to the doorman like that and telling him I was hurt. That must have been hard for him.”
Rossi rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “It is also entirely possible that this Austin character nearly killed you.”
“No!” I didn’t dare shake my head again, resorting instead to stabbing the air with a finger. “That’s not true.”
“Nevertheless I’ll pay a call on Austin tomorrow.” He pocketed the pad and the stub. “And now you need to go to bed.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot. There’s a little more.”
“Such as?”
“My client Imogene and her date fished up the dead body of that florist.”
* * *
True to his promise to check on me, several times during the midnight hours Rossi murmured, “Can you hear me?” Each time, awakened but soothed, I said “yes” before falling back into a fitful sleep. For even in sleep I knew somebody out there meant me harm. If the assault had been a smash and grab, I would actually have been comforted. But my tote with all of its detritus and its valuables too—car keys, credit cards and cash—had been returned to me untouched. Robbery wasn’t the motive. I’d been warned. But why? By whom?
Determined to get back on the job, the next morning after Rossi left I padded into the bathroom and surveyed the damage. An ashen face with circles under the eyes peered out of the mirror.
Oh God, my hair. The doctor had warned me not to shampoo. I did what I could to resurrect it, running a damp washcloth over the strands near my face, but the improvement was minimal. A scarf. I found a green and gold silk square that matched my green linen sheath. I wound it around my head and tied it at the nape. Oversized gold hoop earrings and some serious makeup helped. A little lightheaded, I didn’t dare wear heels so I settled for a pair of flip-flops studded with faux gems. I surveyed the effect in the full-length mirror. Not good but not bad either. The best I could do.
First stop, Southern Lumber. The goings-on at the mall had kept me from looking for reclaimed cypress boards for Imogene’s redo, but today I was in luck. The lumberyard had more than enough nicely salt-stained planks for one good-sized wall.
“Hold them for me, George, will you?” I asked the yard manager. “I’ll take some measurements and get back to you ASAP.”
Pleased, I drove slowly across town—five miles under the limit instead of five over—to my next stop, Sprague Mansion. The lightheadedness had disappeared replaced by a throbbing at my temples, but I didn’t want to give up and call it a day. Not yet. I was dying to see what Paulo had wrought in that impossible kitchen.
When I walked in, he climbed off the ladder, greeting me as if I were a war hero, with hugs, kisses and a raft of combat questions. I loved the welcome and the look he’d brought to the kitchen. The ceiling glowed darkly, its glamorous black glaze over the copper base a lustrous foil to the light-colored woodwork. Overhead, the outsized mahogany fan rotated slowly, adding a lazy, luxuriant touch to the half-finished room.
“So far, very, very good,” I said.
“Yeah it’s coming,” Paulo replied. “I should be through with the woodwork today. I’ll start on the Saxon green tomorrow.”
He’d already removed the upper cabinet doors. The open shelving would be perfect for my creamwear collection. For color, I’d scour the antique shops for old cranberry glass.
“Once you’re finished, I’ll call Florida Floors to rip up—”
The cell. When my fumbling fingers finally found it, I pressed Talk. It was Lee. A visitor waited for me at the shop. A visitor, not a client. Strange.
I hung up before asking who it was. Obviously that blow to my head had taken its toll.
Chapter Nineteen
I ambled slowly along Fern Alley, trying hard to ignore the throbbing at my temples. Outside the shop, curious about whom my visitor might be, I paused to peer into the front window. An older woman, early sixties perhaps, with a worn, tired face sat on the zebra settee staring into space. She looked as if she had something far more serious on her mind than a shabby room that needed an upgrade. Who on earth was she?
The Yarmouthport bells jangled as I stepped inside, startling her out of her reverie. Lee came right over to me. “Deva, this is Mrs. Elaine McCahey. She’s been waiting for you.”
Mrs. McCahey rose as I approached. Taller than I, and gaunt, she offered a shy smile. “Please call me Elaine. I feel as though I already know you.”
“I’m sorry...ah...Elaine, but have we met?”
“No. My son has told me about you. He says very little most days, so hearing him speak of anyone is rare. And a beautiful red-haired woman like you, well, that’s extraordinary.” Her glance took in the scarf. “Austin told me you had red hair,” she added softly.
“You’re Austin’s mother?”
“Yes,” she said, adding with a quiet dignity, “and I love him dearly even though, as you must have noticed, he’s...different.”
“Well...”
“No need to pretend. You’ve been kind to him, I know. Not many people are. He’s autistic.”
“Ah.” That explained so much. Austin’s wooden expression. His inability to communicate. His apparent fear of others.
Sensing she had come to speak at length, I indicated my desk at the rear of the shop. “Let’s sit down, shall we?” I settled into my swivel with a grateful sigh, and she faced me on the padded Eames chair I kept in front of the desk for clients.
“So tell me about Austin,” I said, sending her what I hoped was a smile of encouragement. It must have worked, for after resting her purse on the floor beside her chair, she plunged ahead without preamble.
“He was diagnosed when he was three. As you can imagine, his father and I were devastated. I read everything on the subject I could lay my hands on and followed the advice of experts, but there was little we could do, outside of a healthy diet and a calm environment. He did well for a few years and then regressed. That’s when his father left us.” She didn’t falter as she said this; only the tinge of an old sadness gave away her pain.
“Austin’s stable now,” she added proudly, “t
hough his doctors tell me he lacks the capacity for emotional bonding. But that’s not true. He does feel. He does love. It’s all locked inside him...”
Her hands balled into white-knuckled fists as if she were ready to fight the demons who afflicted her son. Or anyone else who would dare harm him. I admired the woman in that moment more than anyone I’d ever known.
“On his good days, he’ll speak to me. Tell me what he’s thinking. Once in a while what he feels. That’s how I know he met a red-haired lady.” She hesitated. “But I didn’t know your name until this morning.”
Rossi.
“The detective came to our house. Austin was out on a run, and at first I thought something had happened to him.” She paused. “I guess something has. The lieutenant said Austin found you outside the mall. You’d been assaulted.”
I pointed to the scarf. “My head. Someone struck me from behind.”
“Austin would never do that.”
“I know. But the police...they check every lead. And Austin did find me. Please thank him for me. Especially for alerting the doorman. I suspected that wasn’t easy for him, and now I know it wasn’t.”
“No.” A faint smile lifted Elaine McCahey’s lips. “Unprecedented would be more accurate. It was a measure of his affection for you. And you can’t realize, Mrs. Dunne, how thrilled I am to know my son can feel love for anyone.”
“Love is a strong word, Mrs...Elaine.”
She sighed. “I know. I also know Austin didn’t hurt you. He rarely reaches out to people even to say hello.” So certain of her son a moment earlier, she now glanced away from me as if suddenly unsure. “The lieutenant told me what happened in the restroom.”
I nodded.
She leaned in, over the desk. “Austin wanted to show you how he felt but didn’t know how. Such feelings are alien to him. Can you understand that?
Rooms to Die For Page 10
