Rooms to Die For

by Jean Harrington

  “The lieutenant said maybe no. Maybe he was...what did he say...groggy?”

  “That’s strange. Did José have a prescription for Ambien?”

  Beatriz shook her head. “José, no. I am the one. I have the prescription.”

  “Oh my. Does the lieutenant know?”

  “Sí. He asked and I told him.”

  “So José took some of your pills then?”

  She nodded. “I think so. I counted them. Some are missing. I told the lieutenant I didn’t understand. My husband never took a sleeping pill. Despite all his worries, he slept like a baby. I was the one who did not. So why would he take medicine from my bottle?”

  A familiar pounding started up in my head. I felt the need to sit down. Clearly feeling the same need, Beatriz drew me onto a velvet-lined settee that looked as if it belonged in the Prado.

  “The lieutenant didn’t say so,” Beatriz went on, “but I fear he thinks I fed José the Ambien. Maybe the Scotch whisky too.” She grasped my hand, her fingers icy cold. “I swear I did not, Deva.”

  I wrapped both my hands around her fingers to warm them. “Please don’t assume you’re being blamed for anything. The lieutenant won’t jump to false conclusions.” As I do. “That’s not his way. No, there’s an answer to this, and somehow, whatever it is, he’ll find it. Until then, all we can do is be patient.”

  A man walked in and wandered about the shop. Plainly fatigued beyond normal, Beatriz pulled herself to her feet, ready to go to him.

  “You’re working alone today?” I asked.

  “Yes, Hugo is late.” She peeked at her vintage Cartier watch. “He should have been in at noon, but he was a bad boy last night and stayed out until nearly dawn. That must be why he’s delayed.”

  “As soon as he comes in, I hope you’ll leave and go home to rest.”

  She nodded and went to serve her client.

  I said goodbye without mentioning that her fair-haired boy was outside catching some zzzz’s.

  As Phil carried my purchases out to the sidewalk to hold them for me to pick up, I strolled across the nearly empty parking lot to my car. No need to be on red alert; nobody was anywhere near the Audi. I guess Oliver hadn’t exaggerated when he told Rossi mall business had slowed. Well, with the holiday season in the offing, sales would surely pick up. I hoped so, for a lot of people were depending on...

  I slowed as I passed the BMW convertible. Hugo still sat there in the same position, sound asleep, his head back on the seat cushion, his mouth agape, just as it had been an hour ago. Strange that he would pick the mall parking lot to take a nap.

  As much as I disliked tangling with the man, Beatriz needed him. I’d wake him up and tell him so, let him growl at me as much as he wanted to.

  His car windows were still open, so I rapped on the hood. No response. I rapped again. And again. All that noise and he didn’t move a muscle. Not even an eye flicker. He was dead to the world.

  Omigod!

  The scream that erupted from my throat brought Phil racing out to the parking lot.

  “Holy God, Deva, what’s wrong?” he asked, struggling to catch his breath.

  I couldn’t answer him. All I could do was point to Hugo’s body.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dazed, I sat beside Sandra at the reception desk, cradling a mug of coffee, trying to warm the chill I couldn’t seem to shake since finding the horror that was Hugo. I’d peered into the car and stretched out a hand, ready to jog him awake. Then I’d looked down. Blood oozed from a wound in his belly and the odor of death, the foul, acrid scent of it, rose all around me.

  That must have been when I screamed.

  As I waited to be interrogated, the parking lot swarmed with police cruisers, the forensics rolling lab, an ambulance, and Rossi’s beat-up Mustang.

  My head wound throbbed as furiously as it had a week ago, and my fingers trembled on the mug. Despite the coffee, the chill wouldn’t leave me,

  “You cold, Deva?” Sandra asked.

  “Yes, freezing.”

  “I could tell. You’re so pale all your freckles are showing.”

  She took a black sweater off the back of her swivel chair and draped it over my shoulders. That helped, and I sent her a grateful smile. But my head continued to throb. Hugo dead? Why? Though he had been difficult, even irascible, those weren’t reasons for murder. Something else was going down in the Naples Design Mall, and it reeked worse than death. It reeked of evil.

  I wondered if Hugo had a family in Colombia who would grieve for him. A family that depended on him for survival. A mother, maybe. Brothers and sisters. Even if he didn’t, the consequences of his killing would be far-reaching. For one thing, his death spelled the death of the Spanish Galleria. Beatriz would never keep it open now, not without Hugo, who had been like a son to her.

  Worse, there would be no keeping the circumstances of his killing out of the local media—no softening of the facts with a statement that his death might have been a suicide as had happened when José died. The truth would come out, and that spelled hideous publicity for the mall. If Oliver Kent was already worried about the future, this killing would only add to his woes. At the very least, Hugo’s death meant another empty space in the mall. For poor Beatriz, another empty space in her heart. And for the other shop owners, an even more uncertain future.

  The shaking in my hands wouldn’t stop. I put the mug on Sandra’s desk before I dropped it. I wanted to close my eyes and lie down in a darkened room with a damp cloth on my forehead and Rossi beside me. But no such luck. Not yet. Not for hours.

  “You okay?” Sandra asked. Before I could answer, she said, “Oh no, not him again.”

  Half turning in my seat, I looked toward the atrium. Coming from the direction of the Library, Austin, in his jogging suit and sneakers, was springing toward the reception area. As he hurried past us en route to the main entrance, he shot a quick glance my way, no doubt startled to see me in an unusual place. But that didn’t stop him, and he kept on running, wordless as ever.

  Assisted by little Officer Hughes, Officer Batano had taken over Phil’s duties at the bronze doors. He was only letting in people on police business, and with her clipboard in hand Hughes was recording the name and contact information of anyone leaving the building. When Austin approached them, Batano threw a beefy arm across one of the bronze doors, stopping him in his tracks.

  This should be interesting.

  Passive and slump-shouldered, Austin stood in front of the officers, not trying to leave or do anything else. I couldn’t hear what Batano was asking him, but it was clear even from a distance of fifty feet or so that he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted.

  “Be right back,” I said to Sandra.

  “You have to give us a name or you can’t leave. Those are my orders,” Batano was saying.

  Austin stared at him, eyes wide, either not knowing how to answer, or for reasons known only to himself, refusing to do so.

  “Officer, this man is a friend of mine,” I said. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Dunne, that’d be great. Start with the hard stuff. His name.”

  Batano didn’t do sarcasm well.

  “His name is Austin McCahey.”

  Hughes wrote that on her clipboard. “Any known address?” she asked

  I gave it to her.

  “Telephone where he can be reached?”

  “I don’t know offhand, but I have it in my office.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Batano eyeballed Austin, clearly not knowing what to think of him, but knowing something was, well—off. “You going anywhere in the next few days, leave a number where you can be reached in case Homicide wants to question you.”

  Austin didn’t answer him, not with a single word.

  “
Is that all?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

  “Austin,” I said, “it’s all right. The officer said you can leave now.”

  Without answering, he yanked the door open and took off, his flight the only acknowledgment that I had spoken. The change in his daily routine must have frightened him.

  “Wow, that’s a weird one,” Batano said, holding the door ajar so he could watch Austin sprint away.

  “He’s autistic. Can’t help acting as he does. He’s harmless though.”

  Batano let the door swing shut. “You vouching for him?”

  “You mean for his actions today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry, wish I could but I can’t. This is the first I’ve seen of him since I got here. I don’t know where he’s been, or what he’s done. All I know is he’s a gentle soul.” Except when he’s slamming doors in the ladies’ room.

  “If you say so.” Having seen it all, Batano was tough to convince.

  I just nodded and went back to Sandra and my now-cool coffee. After one sip, I wrinkled my nose and put down the mug.

  “Want a refill?” Sandra asked.

  “That would be heaven.”

  She laughed and picked up the mug. “Be right back.”

  The reception area offered a clear view of the front entrance, so I spotted Rossi the minute he walked in. He looked tense and determined, the notebook that was practically a living extension of his fingers open in one hand, his pencil stub in the other. Even his peach-and-cream shirt with its jaunty bamboo fronds didn’t lighten up his appearance. Rossi was worried.

  After exchanging a few words with the officers, he strode toward the reception desk. He didn’t waste any time or words on a greeting.

  “Batano gave me the gist of what you found. I’ll talk to you later. For now, I need to quiz the shop owners before they decide to leave early. Stay put,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

  “But—”

  He didn’t get far when Ted from Breeze City rushed off the elevator and hurried over to us.

  “I just heard about Hugo,” he said. “Oh my God, Deva, what happened?”

  “And you are?” Rossi asked.

  “Ted Wolff. I work here. Is it true?”

  “That Hugo Navarre is dead?”

  Out of breath and panting, either from emotion or hurry or both, Ted simply nodded.

  “I’m sorry to say it is true,” Rossi said. “You knew the deceased?”

  Ted drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “Of course I knew him. We were friends. Good friends. God, we were drinking buddies. You know, like after work. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Rossi asked.

  “Last night. At the Gators Pub. I met with him and—” He stopped to catch another breath, or to catch the end of his sentence before he accidentally blurted it out.

  “And?” So Rossi had also noticed the abrupt pause.

  “We had a couple of brews. I left for home. What Hugo did after that I don’t know.”

  Rossi wrote something in his notepad. “He hang around with anybody else here in the mall?”

  “Not that I know of. Except for the Vegas. He’s been staying with Mrs. Vega—Beatriz—since José was killed. She might know something.”

  Rossi kept his eyes on his notes. A good thing he did. His handwriting was so terrible nobody else would be able to decipher it. After a few moments of scribbling, he looked up. “What about friends outside the mall?”

  “He was from Colombia. He may have known some people from there. If so, he never mentioned anyone.”

  “I see.” Rossi treated Ted to the glare of his see-all eyes. “When you met for drinks after work, anybody ever join you?”

  Ted hesitated, as if thinking that over. “Uh, yeah, sometimes. You know, a guy at the bar might want to talk to us. Stuff like that.”

  “Anybody you could name?”

  “No, not that I can remember. No last names anyway.”

  Really? Ted must have forgotten about Harlan Conway. I was sure he’d once told me that he and Harlan used to meet for drinks occasionally. I gave a mental shrug. Maybe Ted didn’t meet Harlan on the same nights he met Hugo. On the other hand, maybe he did. If so, Rossi would want to know.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “So we’re back to pink, are we?” Harlan asked the next morning.

  A plastic bag full of pink pillows in my arms, I whirled around, the gravel in Imogene’s drive scattering under my sandals.

  “The color makes her happy, Harlan. I temporarily forgot that. But I won’t forget again.” I slammed the Audi door and pocketed the key.

  “Well, taste will out.”

  In scuffed sandals, white shorts, and a faded denim shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbow, he looked the picture of casual cool. I’d give him that much. But no more.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  “Imogene? Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

  “No, the break is complete. You know what happened. I saw you and your date at the Baywalk that night. At the so-called show.”

  “Yes, we were there. It was quite a tribute to you.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Tribute? Is that what you’d call it? When Imogene asked me to meet her there, she said she had a surprise for me. Surprise wasn’t the word. I couldn’t believe she’d pull a stunt like that. I still can’t.”

  “She only tried to help.”

  “I suppose so, but she gave a new meaning to the word tacky.”

  “We thought the show was fun, but I can see why that special song might have embarrassed you.”

  “You left out the black banner with the red lettering. And how she worked the crowd for votes. In a gaudy cowgirl outfit at that. She should have known better. That’s the whole point. She didn’t, and she never will.” He shrugged. “She has no taste, and that won’t change. She’s the kind of girl who’s more comfortable in a bikini than anything else.”

  However true that might be, I disliked him for not seeing past it to the genuinely sweet girl Imogene really was. “She looks great in a bikini, and the show wasn’t bad either, Harlan. Besides you can’t be responsible for what a...a fan might do.”

  “I guess not, but the whole thing infuriated me.” He kicked out at the gravel and sent some pebbles flying. “I guess I was pretty rough on her afterwards.”

  “I heard.” But I also heard Syd had popped him one. So it was unclear if Harlan was the rougher or the roughee. Better not to ask.

  “So how is she? Is she okay?”

  He really wanted to know, but he hadn’t put me in the mood to cater to his needs. So like a typical bitch, I twisted the knife a little. “She’s okay enough. Finding solace with the violinist.”

  His jaw dropped a foot. “That skinny bald guy with the fiddle?”

  “The same. Apparently there’s more to Syd than meets the eye. So how are you doing? And speaking of the contest, how’s it coming?”

  Another kick at the gravel. “No word yet. Another two weeks before the winners are announced.”

  “Well, good luck,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

  “Thanks, but luck has nothing to do with it. Talent’s what matters. You should know that. You’re in the arts too.” He managed the ghost of a smile. “In a manner of speaking.”

  What an insufferable boor. I wanted to stomp on the bare toes sticking out of his sandals and grind them into the gravel. But I restrained myself and, smooth as a piece of Hong Kong silk, replied, “I’ll tell Imogene you said hi,” though actually I had no intention of bringing up his frigging name.

  “That would be nice. She’s a sweet girl.”

  “But not your type.”

  “In some ways, y
es.” He smiled again.

  “I meant outside the bedroom.”

  He shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”

  Unfortunate? Wrong. In my humble opinion, the best thing that ever happened to Imogene Stirling was not being Harlan Conway’s type.

  I stepped away from the car. “I should go in now. She’ll be waiting for me.”

  “Of course.” He upped his chin at Imogene’s house. “You’ve done a good job in there.”

  “She doesn’t think so.”

  Hands thrust into his pockets, he stood still, looking as if he had more on his mind.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Harlan?”

  “No, no. Just out for a stroll. Saw your car.” He tried for yet another smile. It came out lopsided. “Notice you’re not parking behind the garage anymore.”

  “No need, but I do want to get to work. Will you let me pass, please?”

  As if I had singed him, he jumped back, and I walked toward Imogene’s outside stairway, clutching the big bag of pillows.

  “By the way, I heard about that killing at the Naples Design Mall,” he said.

  I turned around and waited for him to say what he really meant.

  “What a shame. Hugo Navarre, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Did you know Hugo?”

  He hesitated, as if scanning a mental Rolodex before answering. “Slightly. I may have met him a time or two. You know the mall. It’s one big happy family. Everybody knows everybody else.”

  The pillows for all their softness were getting heavy. “With what’s been going on there lately, I’d say the mall family was dysfunctional, not happy.”

  “That too. Give Imogene my best.”

  Suddenly in a hurry to get moving, he strode off. I sprinted up the stairs, the tail ends of my scarf flapping in the salty air. Why did I find Harlan so annoying? I blew out a breath. No need to ponder the question—the answer wasn’t hard to figure out. He had patronized me, the jerk. That was part of it. His self-assured arrogance frayed my nerves too. But his disdain for Imogene was the biggest reason. She deserved better, even if he did have movie-star good looks. Actually his looks were irritating, especially his perfectly cut and combed hair with its straight-as-an-arrow part. Clearly, the scarf and the stitches in my scalp were driving me crazy.