A woman. Who’s to say a woman hadn’t hit me with that rock? Certainly not Beatriz. God forbid. Or Sandra at the visitors’ desk. She had no motive. Or none that I knew of. That left only Claudia. If she scared me away from the mall, she’d escape the knowing look in my eyes each time I saw her with Oliver. That annoying, knowing look. Then, of course, there was Elaine McCahey, whose son was her very life. Yes, paranoia was the word for where my thoughts were leading. Elaine was a nurturer, not a mugger. Shame on me.
A shame too that my mental list didn’t reveal the culprit. Or was the killer—and the mugger—hidden somewhere inside my head?
Chapter Twenty-Two
I was about to call Lee at the shop when my cell phone rang. I dumped everything out of the tote onto the bed and grabbed the cell on the second ring, as triumphant as if I’d shaved a few seconds off an Olympic record.
“Deva, so glad I caught you.”
“Imogene, what’s up?”
“I have the dimensions for that cypress wall. Guess what? Harlan did the measuring so you can trust it like gospel.”
“Wonderful.”
“Yes, he is. Better than I deserve.”
“Oh, I don’t know about—”
“I do, Deva. He’s perfect. That’s why I want to surprise him.”
Uh-oh. “How?”
“You know that architectural contest he’s in? For the Caldwell Prize?”
“Yes.” I had to sit down to hear this one, so I perched on the edge of the bed.
“He’s too modest to admit it, but I know he’s dying to win. So I thought I’d help out.”
“But how?”
“Well, I am an entertainer.”
“True.” Where she was heading, I hadn’t a clue.
“There’s this boat, the Miss Understood. It belongs to Syd, an old friend of mine. He and Lyle and I used to do gigs together. Lyle plays bass, and Syd fiddles like you wouldn’t believe. So we’re putting on a show. The Harlan Conway Show. We’re going up and down the Florida coast in Syd’s boat, singing and stomping and praising Harlan’s contest entry to the skies. Isn’t that a great idea?”
Brimming with excitement, she didn’t let me get in a single word. “Harlan said his house is a classic. It’s based on the old Florida shotgun style with the rooms all in a row and a breezeway in the middle. He said it’s a perfect design, and it’s going to stand the test of time. Imagine!”
“If it’s that good, does it need a traveling road show? Maybe you should—”
“Oh I know. Tone down my look. I already thought of that. I have a cowgirl outfit with no sequins whatsoever. Just plain old red. And boots to match. I’ve even written a song. ‘Harlan’s So Hot.’”
“Before you go ahead with this, Imogene, I think you need to—”
“Sorry, Deva. Someone’s at my door. It’s Syd! Omigod. Have to go. Love ya, Deva. And just you wait till Harlan hears about our show. He’ll be thrilled.”
I tossed the cell on the bed and blew out a breath. Thrilled? How about appalled? For I felt pretty sure the Harlan Conway I’d met would die of embarrassment if Imogene went through with this.
And go through with it she would. There was no stronger force on earth than a lovesick woman on a mission. Ah well, I had stitches in my scalp, my hair looked like an abandoned nest, and a murderer was on the loose. To top off that list, I also had a business to run. At the moment Imogene’s love affair was a low priority.
With a shake of my head, a slight one, I picked up the tossed cell and phoned Lee at the shop. “How are things going today?”
“Fine, Deva, but I’m so glad you called. The floor finishers are at the Sprague Mansion. Should Paulo tell them to apply the stain after they finish sanding?”
“Absolutely. Dark walnut. I know he’ll choose the right shade. Oh, and no high gloss finish. Satin finish polyurethane only.”
“Will do. I’ll call him right now.”
I hung up and again tossed the cell on the bed. What a way to run a business. Interior design was a hands-on profession. Yet here I was holed up like a political prisoner under house arrest. Tomorrow, guaranteed, I’d check out the Showhouse job, despite hell, high water or Rossi.
* * *
The next morning, anticipation or maybe anxiety had my head throbbing at the temples. Nothing like two days ago, just enough of an edge to make me aware of my wound. Otherwise sleep and a day’s rest had done wonders. The circles under my eyes had disappeared, the freckles had receded, and to compensate for the scarf wound around my head, I donned a snug orange mini and a cropped, string-colored sweater. I even felt confident enough to wear high-heeled slides.
Good to go, I headed for Sprague Mansion, hoping the effect I had in mind was what I’d see when I walked into that monster kitchen.
When I drove up, several pickup trucks were parked outside, and the front door stood open. With just two more weeks until showtime, all the designers were ratcheting up their concepts. Nervous, I strode down the hall without giving in to curiosity and peeking at the other rooms. I could check out the competition later.
I took in a deep, steadying breath and came to a halt outside the kitchen. Someone, Paulo perhaps, had taped a cord across the open doorway. A cardboard square warning WET FLOOR hung from the cord. Not exactly crime scene tape, but for some reason the sight chilled my blood. I paused in the opening and peeked into the room. The breath I’d inhaled left my body in one long, relieved rush, and so did the chill. The big empty kitchen was gorgeous. Light, dark, rich, restrained, and over-the-top opulent all rolled into one. Everything I’d hoped and aimed for.
I bent down and ever so slightly woozy, touched a finger to the floor. Dry. I removed the cord and stepped in.
Paulo had done a magnificent job—right down to the cleanup. Not a paint can, rag or brush in sight. Even the ladder had been removed, and the windows freshly washed. They sparkled in the morning sunlight in a way they probably hadn’t in twenty years. The vivid green walls played off the linen-white woodwork, and the dark floor and gleaming copper ceiling echoed each other exactly as I had hoped. The envelope was nearly complete. All that remained was to hone those old soapstone counters. I peered closer at them. Had he?
Yes! Propped against the backsplash, a Kustom Kitchens business card was stapled to a receipt made out to Paulo St. James. Honing the countertops and installing a farm-style sink had been paid for in full. Tears started up, blurring my vision. Someone else had done my work for me, and that wasn’t good. But it sure was wonderful.
Time for the La Cornue. As I dug in my purse for the cell to call Tiny Forbes, loud footsteps drummed along the central hall. Whoever was redoing the hall needed to install a carpet runner soon. My fingers seized the phone and in the same instant let it drop back into the bag.
“Hugo! What a surprise.”
“Yes, I thought I might be,” he said, scrutinizing the room—its walls, ceiling, floor. “Now that I see where you intend to place the altar, I understand why you want it. It’ll show beautifully in here.”
Relieved that he thought so, I said, “If you give me some Galleria business cards, I’ll display them on the altar top. Maybe we’ll find a buyer for the piece.”
“That would be very helpful,” he said. “Now my only concern is whether or not this structure is sound enough to hold heavy weight.” To test the floorboards, he jumped up and down a few times. No point in worrying if he’d fall through to the basement. There wasn’t one.
“The infrastructure of the building was recently brought up to code,” I assured him. “Plumbing, wiring, roof, structural supports. Everything. The owners even installed a state-of-the-art alarm system.”
For some reason that caught his attention, and he shot me a surprised look.
“The altar will be safe in here, if that’s your concern,” I s
aid.
“It is,” he replied. “Now that Beatriz is alone, I feel responsible for her welfare. The altar is her most valuable possession. I’d hate to have anything happen to it.”
He was so obviously concerned about Beatriz that I said, “I would hate to have anything happen to the altar too. So if you prefer, we can cancel the loan. There’s still time for me to find something else to use in its place.”
He cut me off. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. You put a bee in Beatriz’s bonnet. Regardless of the cost, she’s determined to go through with this...loan.”
“I know you’re worried, Hugo, but please don’t be. The house will be guarded at all times. It might make you feel better to know that a lot of people are putting a great deal of energy and time and money into making this a success. It’s for a very good cause, to help the homeless.”
A burst of applause startled me. Hugo whirled toward the open doorway, and so did I.
Raúl Lopez stood there, clapping and smiling, looking for all the world like a latter-day Valentino. Or at the very least a flamenco dancer. The contrast between the two men couldn’t have been stronger—one scowling, the other oozing charm.
Raúl stepped into the room, looked around and whistled.
“This is marvelous, Deva. You are to be congratulated on your concept. The room’s a showstopper.” He turned to Hugo. “And for you, my compadre, a few words. We are happy to be here in America. Isn’t that true? So why not give back a little of what has been given to us? Doesn’t that strike you as just?”
“Don’t preach to me,” Hugo snapped. “You, of all people. Beatriz has told me what you are.”
Unfazed, Raúl shrugged. “You’re upset, amigo. I understand. Oliver Kent says Beatriz is closing the shop. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s wrong. All wrong. The shop is not closing. I’ll keep it open myself if need be.”
“Good, but that will require quite a cash outlay. The rare antiquities alone will run into thousands. Hundreds of—”
“I’ll find a way. It’s only money,” he said. And to me, “We’ll deliver the altar tomorrow morning.” Then, with a dismissive nod to the two of us, he turned away and stomped out of the kitchen and down the hall, his footfalls echoing throughout the house.
Left alone with me, Raúl shrugged. “Despite that encounter, I’m glad you’re here, Deva. I have the Tiffany sconces out in my truck. If you tell me where you want them hung, I’ll be glad to install them myself.”
“There,” I said, pointing to either side of the sink.
“Excellent.”
No question, Señor Lopez was the most accommodating murder suspect I’d ever met.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The seasonal fall decorations Lee and I had ordered arrived that afternoon, so in between helping drop-in customers, Lee unpacked them, and I switched the table skirts.
To keep the shop looking seasonal all year, I’d had several floor-length skirts made for the four round display tables. Red and gold for Christmas, hyacinth for spring, awning stripes for summer, and apricot and taupe for fall. The Halloween items would go on the apricot cloth and the Thanksgiving items on the taupe. I’d put out bowls of cinnamon and clove potpourri to perfume the shop, hopefully inspiring clients to decorate their homes for autumn. Though like most Floridians I wasn’t holding my breath waiting for a chill in the air. Even in late September, Naples oozed steam like a sauna.
Midway through the afternoon, the Yarmouthport bells jangled yet again, and I glanced over at the door.
“Deva. Lee.”
“Rossi. How nice.” I hurried over to give him a discreet kiss on the cheek He gave me a discreet hug in return, and glanced over my shoulder at the shop. “Looks pretty scary in here. You two going out for trick or treat?”
Lee giggled. I glanced at the apricot-topped tables I’d been arranging. Had I overdone the miniature haunted houses? No, they were a wonderfully spooky collection.
“Rossi, you know how you’re always telling me to stick to my decorating and let you do the detecting? Well, let’s reverse that. How about you stick to your detecting and I’ll stick to my designing.”
“Too late, Deva. I need your help.”
Rossi needed my help? That was music to my ears. And not some doggerel ditty. Beethoven’s Fifth. Mahler’s Eighth.
“Oh really?” I said, cool as a breeze off the coast of Maine.
“Okay, gloat.” No fooling Rossi. “You’ve earned the right.”
“True, but for you, anything, Lieutenant.”
“Excellent.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to squander that on mere sleuthing.”
“Y’all want me to leave you alone?” Lee asked.
I had to smile. Marriage certainly had been a maturing experience for lovely Mrs. Paulo St. James.
“The answer to both of you is no,” I said. “And as for you, Rossi, you don’t have a thing to worry about.” That wasn’t true, but it sounded good.
“In that case.” He held up a manila envelope. “This contains photographs of possible suspects in your mugging. It includes everyone we could come up with who might have a motive for wishing you harm.” Not looking happy about it, he gave me the envelope. “I want you to show these photographs to Austin McCahey. One at a time, slowly, and ask him if he saw that person harming you.”
I nodded. “All right. Glad to help out.”
“Good. Then show them to him a second time and ask if he sees someone who did something bad one night on that third floor. Okay? Got that?”
“Of course.”
“It’s a long shot, but sometimes long shots pay off.”
“You know I want to help, but since when does a victim investigate her own case? It’s because of his autism, isn’t it? You don’t believe Austin will cooperate with you.”
“Something like that. I think he might be intimidated, see me as a threat. If he’ll open up to anybody, you’re the one. According to his mother, he’s developed a deep affection for you.” Rossi frowned as if he found that news disturbing. Clearly he didn’t trust Austin the way I did. “So maybe tomorrow you could time a mall visit with his schedule. Mrs. McCahey said he faces each day slowly. Doesn’t usually go out for his run until midafternoon.”
“That’ll work. I have to be at the Sprague Mansion in the morning to accept two deliveries, but after that I’m free.”
Rossi pinned me with one of those penetrating looks Sandra the mall receptionist liked so much. “You feeling up to this?”
“Of course. I’m fine.”
“All right then. I don’t want McCahey to spot me, so I’ll stay out of sight. But I’ll send a plant to keep an eye on you. She’ll be in plainclothes.” His face clouded, the tension lines in his forehead deepening. “Anything happens, she’ll be right on it. You can count on that.”
“If you say so.”
He gripped my shoulder. “But be careful anyway. The guy makes a move you don’t like, yell bloody murder. Got that?”
“Absolutely. Don’t worry so much.”
As if I hadn’t spoken, he said, “Stay out of the parking lot too. Have the doorman valet park your car. Question McCahey only when other people are around. In the snack shop. Or the atrium. Keep away from quiet corners, including the restrooms.”
Rossi didn’t need to warn me about the restrooms. Yes, I trusted Austin, but to spare my nerves in case he wanted to surprise me again, I wouldn’t ever go into that ladies’ room alone.
I placed the envelope on my desk and was about to ask why he hadn’t waited until evening to tell me all this when he said, “I’m working late, so I’ll stay at my place when I get through work. See if everything’s tight, pick up my mail...you’ll be okay without me?”
From his troubled expression I didn’t kno
w whether he wanted me to say yes or no, so I settled for “I’ll miss you.”
“Good. I love that. See you tomorrow.” With the tension lines in his forehead practically deepening into ruts, he added a final warning. “I wouldn’t ask you to meet with McCahey if I could see any other way to handle him. But I can’t. The guy’s a locked suitcase. So promise you’ll be careful?”
“I do.”
He sent me the glimmer of a smile.
Uh-oh. What had I said?
Chapter Twenty-Four
How could a stove be a beautiful beast and a jewel at the same time? A physical impossibility, but somehow the La Cornue bridged that impossible gap.
Away from Tiny Forbes’s crowded workroom with its screaming saws, construction hammers and sawdust, and nestled between the sparkling windows of the Showhouse kitchen, the stove intimidated like a magnificent animal and gleamed like a deep-toned ruby.
The fact that you couldn’t boil so much as a cup of water on it didn’t matter in the least. Visual impact was what I was after, and the outrageous stove fit that bill to perfection. As Hugo had done the day before, I wanted to jump up and down—but for an entirely different reason.
“Thanks so much, Tiny. This was an inspiration. It saves the day.”
“Yeah, it’s some appliance all right. You don’t see many of these in a lifetime.” He snapped his suspenders. Yellow ones today. “Your open-panel fridge came in. So what do you want on the front of that baby?”
“I had weathered shutters in mind. Walnut like the floor and the prep island that’s due to be delivered soon. But I don’t think there’s time to search the renovation suppliers. So I’ll have to go with new. Hate to, though.”
“You want I should buy a set and have my guys distress them?”
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