I jabbed a finger on Imogene’s bell. She opened the door in her Hooters shorts and the red tube top.
“You look great,” I told her, and she did.
“Thanks, Deva. Syd likes me in this outfit too. He’s not crazy about that black dress though.”
“Well,” I said, stepping into her living room, “wear whatever works.”
“That’s what I say.”
“Sounds like you’re back to your true self.”
“I think so.” Her forehead puckered a little, but other than that she looked pretty serene.
“Are you feeling all right? I mean—”
“Am I over Harlan?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head, and for a moment there, the tube top sagged. “I may never be. He’s a star, and I’m just a performer. No match at all.” Her eyes went filmy with tears. “But I can’t speak of him anymore. It sinks my heart.”
“Don’t put yourself down like that, Imogene. I loved your performance. You’re gifted.”
She drew a sniffle up her nose. “That’s what Syd says.”
“So believe him. From what I heard, he knows his music.”
“He does. He’s wonderful on that fiddle. If only he wasn’t so skinny. It’s like sleeping with a bag of bones.”
I laughed and plunked the pillows on the sofa. “Then fatten him up.”
“No time for that. We’re hitting the road. He has half a dozen gigs lined up for us in Charlotte and Punta Gorda and Ybor City. As soon as I finish packing, we’re heading out.”
I glanced at my watch. “After you leave, I’d like to stay on for a bit. The furniture store is delivering the new chairs at ten. And I have more pillows in the car and some accessories for the bedroom.”
“Stay as long as you like. Make yourself at home. Have some coffee.”
As Imogene hurried into the bedroom to finish packing, I toted the rest of the items up the stairs. In the channel water outside the glass wall, a few small boats bobbed in the gentle swells. Actually, the white walls punctuated by the driftwood look of the old cypress were just about perfect for this setting. Even the long couch draped in its canvas sheath melded seamlessly into the crisp, clean background. I sighed. Too bad Imogene didn’t like what I’d done, and until she did, I’d failed at my job.
A horn honked. I looked outside. A red pickup truck sat in the drive, its motor running.
“I think Syd’s here,” I called.
“He’s always early. I have to break him of that habit.” Imogene hurried out of the bedroom with her guitar in one hand, dragging a wheelie suitcase in the other. “A key’s on the kitchen shelf next to the phone. Stay as long as you please.”
“Break a leg,” I said.
She grinned ear-to-ear. “That’s showbiz talk. Good for you. I didn’t think you knew anything about that.”
Clearly, Imogene’s faith in my abilities had fallen to the soles of her stiletto slides. Maybe lower.
She hadn’t been gone five minutes when the furniture truck pulled onto the driveway and two built guys lifted out a pair of nubby orange chairs.
“Up here,” I called from the landing outside the door.
Placed to the left and right of the couch, the chairs did wonders to brighten up the space. And bright is what would please Imogene. Tossed with pink and orange pillows, the couch took on an Imogene personality as well. We’d have to wait for the custom-made pink coffee table-ottoman, but the wait would be well worth while.
In her apricot bedroom, I settled the pink-and-orange-striped duvet over the neatly made king-size bed, covered the pillows with matching shams, and layered the bed with more pink and orange pillows, larger ones in back, gradually downsizing to a darling little ruffled pink neck roll in the front of the pile.
Wait’ll Syd sees that.
In my search for a coffee mug, I rifled the kitchen cupboards and came across a collection of pink pottery stashed out of the way on a top shelf. When pleasing Harlan meant banning all things pink, Imogene must have hidden them out of sight.
I reached up and took down a large pink serving bowl and a covered tureen. The tureen would make a great centerpiece for the glass-topped dining table, and the bowl would add a jolt of color to the kitchen counter.
After making a note to buy a few faux oranges to place in the bowl, I carried my coffee out onto Imogene’s deck and took in the view. The tide had ebbed; the pilings holding up the boat docks were wet to the knees where the water had recently lapped, and as usual, the familiar, pervasive odor of fish hung in the air. Chugging along slowly, a Boston Whaler headed for the Gulf, its cabin roof bristling with fishing rods. A sunny calm day, perfect for an outing.
The peaceful scene, the quiet atmosphere, made it hard to believe that only a few miles away two men had been brutally murdered. And here I’d been fluffing pillows and arranging pink pottery when I should be helping Rossi. But how? Besides, he didn’t want my help. He wanted me safe.
Only yesterday, while he quizzed me about finding Hugo’s remains, he’d said, “Until this is over, I want you to stay out of the mall.”
“I can’t promise that,” I told him. “You’re forgetting about my business. I have to get to my venues.”
“You’ve already been assaulted here, and two men have been killed. What’s it take to convince you?”
“I have complete trust in you, Rossi. You’ll find who did it—no question you will.”
“I’m not interested in flattery. Your stubbornness is making my job harder. Do you understand? Harder.”
“That’s not my intent. I promise I’ll come to the mall as seldom as possible, and I’ll tell Sandra at the front desk which shops I’m visiting.”
“Terrific. So if someone kills you, I’ll know exactly where to look.”
“Oh come on, loosen up. The mall isn’t shutting down,” I said, crossing my fingers and hoping for a self-fulfilling prophesy. “People will be in and out every day. So why not me?”
“Because I love you,” he said, and without waiting for a response, he got up, turned on his heel and stalked off.
And that was the last I’d seen of him. Or heard. He hadn’t stopped by last night or called. Busy and angry. Both. He’d probably caught a couple of hours’ sleep at the station, or maybe he’d gone home to Countryside—his quiet East Naples neighborhood—for the night. Whatever the reason for his silence, I missed him.
As for his declaration of love, I was numb all over. I reveled in the knowledge, but it scared me too. Though Rossi had picked the least romantic time and place to put his feelings into words, that meant he’d want to talk about a commitment next, and that worried me more than taking chances at the mall. I’d once had what I thought was the perfect marriage. As I later learned, it wasn’t perfect, but it was superb while it lasted. That Rossi was my second chance at happiness, I had no doubt. But suppose I seized the golden ring again and it slipped through my fingers a second time? What then?
With a sigh, I tossed the coffee dregs over the railing and went inside.
Chapter Thirty
Somewhere deep in the bowels of the orange tote, my cell chirped. I dashed over to the couch where I’d dropped my bag and caught the call on the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.
“Deva? This is Beatriz Vega.”
“Oh.” I sank onto one of Imogene’s new chairs. “How are you, Beatriz, though I fear to hear your answer.”
“Sad. I am a sad old woman.”
Tears sprang into my eyes. She was suffering, and there was nothing I could do to ease her pain. I tried, though, murmuring words of comfort into the phone, hoping they didn’t sound hollow, that she understood I grieved for her.
“There is something I need to tell you,” she said. “It won’t wait. Can you come to the mall today?”
“The shop is closed. If you knock on the glass, I’ll let you in,” she said. Before I could reply, she hung up.
I made a quick call to Lee so she wouldn’t expect me anytime soon, locked up Imogene’s house, and ran down the stairs.
In the mall parking lot, I eyed the scene carefully before stepping out of the Audi. Buzzing past Phil at the door, I gave receptionist Sandra a wave of hello—and nearly bumped headfirst into Claudia Lopez and Oliver Kent. Oliver’s “Whoa!” caught me one step away from crashing into him.
“In a hurry, Deva?” Claudia asked.
“Yes.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m late for an appointment.”
“Sorry you’re in a rush. I wish you had time to talk to us.”
Us? That slowed me down long enough to listen.
“Oliver and I have been working on a PR project, and we’d love your input. In fact, I was about to call you. What do you think about a mall tie-in with the Sprague Mansion? Maybe a glossy publication featuring shop owners and designers like you who helped create the Showhouse.”
“Sounds wonderful. As long as the Showhouse committee agrees.”
“They’ve already given their verbal okay,” Oliver said. “Can you meet with us tomorrow? We have a few other ideas we’d like to share with you too.”
“No, sorry, I can’t. I’m busy all day.” No point in mentioning that I had a doctor’s appointment and was hoping to high heaven he’d remove the stitches in my scalp. Besides they could see the scarf and hadn’t mentioned the mugging, so why bring up what was obviously a sore subject, especially for Oliver? After all, I’d been injured on mall property—his turf.
He opened his smartphone and checked his schedule. “I’m free tomorrow, but not Thursday. What say we meet in my office on Friday. One o’clock?”
“Fine. I’ll save Friday for you, but now I do have to run,” I said, and dripping with guilt, hurried to the bank of elevators. Once again, it looked as if I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Claudia and Oliver might not be having an affair after all. Maybe they were together a lot for business reasons only. After all—and I should have remembered this—Claudia’s husband was a very attractive man, a man fully capable of giving her that hickey I’d seen on her neck. It honestly felt good to be totally wrong, and I stepped off the elevator happier than I’d been in days.
The feeling didn’t last long. A funereal quiet had settled like a pall over much of the third floor. Except for Breeze City. I peeked in the front windows as I passed by. Lights were blazing in there, and sample fans whirred overhead. Behind the sales desk, Ted chatted with a customer. And in the center of the shop, Raúl was pointing out one of the overheads to a middle-aged couple. Making a sales pitch, no doubt. So it was business as usual—at least at Breeze City. But the Spanish Galleria told a different tale.
The exquisite needlepoint Closed sign hung inside the glass door. Through it, I peered in, straight to the backroom office, and as instructed, I tapped on the glass. Slowly, her pace halting and stiff, Beatriz shuffled toward me. She was dressed in black silk, her hair plaited and wrapped around her head like a tiara. Jet beads circled her throat and wrists. A queen in mourning.
After unlocking the door, she relocked it, lowered all the blinds and beckoned me forward. Once we were inside her office, she closed that door too, her hush-hush behavior boosting my curiosity level sky-high.
“Thank you for coming so swiftly, Deva,” she said. “You must have heard the panic in my voice.”
“No, not really. I heard a friend in need.”
The shadow of a smile lifted her lips. “I trust you,” she said, “and truthfully did not know who else to call. But before I show you, please be seated. You’re going to be shocked.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I asked, perching on the edge of the carved chair beside her desk.
Bending over, she reached into a desk drawer and removed a clear plastic bag. She laid it on the desktop and sat down.
A white powdery substance filled the bag to near bursting. I stared at it, then across at her. “That isn’t sugar, is it?”
She shook her head. “Cocaine. Maybe heroin. I don’t know for certain.”
“Where did you find this?”
“In Hugo’s room. I was packing his belongings to ship to his family in Bogotá. This was hidden under some clothing.”
I eyed the bag without touching it. It looked as if it weighed about a pound. If cocaine or heroin, the contents would be worth a small fortune. How much exactly, I couldn’t even begin to guess.
“You see this pestilence,” Beatriz said, pointing to the bag with a shaky finger. “The sight has dried my tears. I have none left for Hugo, a boy I trusted like a son. But he was no son. He was a stranger.”
“Perhaps you’re mistaken, Beatriz.”
“Pah! What’s to mistake? Do you have a bag of cocaine in your lingerie drawer?”
Who could argue with logic like that? “I’m so sorry, but I can’t help you with this. You need to call the police.”
She reared back in her chair. “No, no, no! I am afraid. Hugo lived in my home. He kept drugs there. Suppose he was selling them? Then he was tied to evildoers. If they think I know about him, they may kill me next.”
She got up and paced the small room, wringing her hands in rhythm with each agitated step. “I can’t believe Hugo would do such a thing. But why should I not believe? Look at what my José did? And now they’re both dead.” She stopped mid-pace as a sudden thought struck her. “José may have known about these drugs. He may have been in league with Hugo.”
“Beatriz, slow down. And sit down, please. You don’t know for sure if Hugo was dealing drugs. Although if what’s in the bag is cocaine, he might have been. Your only protection is to go to the police.”
To my relief, she went back to her chair, slumping on it in silence. A moment only and she sat erect. “Shhh.” She held up a warning palm. “What was that?”
I cocked my head toward the shop’s display room and listened. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Something there was. At the front door. I heard a click.”
The sole exit from the office led out to the Galleria’s display room. Had it been broken into, we were trapped. A door closed, the sound strangely muffled as if someone were trying to shut it quietly. Beatriz froze in place.
“Does this office door lock?” I whispered.
She shook her head. “No.”
My tote lay on the floor next to the chair. Searching in it for the cell would take too long. I leaned across the desk and reached for the office phone. Before I could raise the receiver, the door burst open. A man, backlit by the display room’s arc lights, stood silhouetted in the opening. Other than noting that he was over six feet tall, all I really saw was the Glock in his hand.
Chapter Thirty-One
He kicked the door closed. “Ladies, don’t move.”
Beatriz couldn’t have moved if she wanted to. And I sure didn’t want to, not with the muzzle of that gun staring me in the face.
“Who are you?” I asked. “And how did you get in here? Pick the lock?”
He didn’t bother to answer. The plastic bag on the desk had caught his attention.
“I see you got something belongs to me.” He aimed the gun at Beatriz. “Where’s the rest?”
“I know nothing of any drugs.”
He snorted through his long nose. “You know plenty. Too much.” He steppe
d forward, big muscled and overweight, a Sherman tank of a man. “Now I want to know. Where did Hugo hide the shipment?”
Beatriz’s mouth fell open. “There’s more?”
“You got your hands on this much, you got the rest.”
“I swear I do not.”
The gun swiveled over to me. “How about you? Where is it?”
“I’m just visiting my friend, Mrs. Vega. I know nothing about Hugo Navarre’s activities.”
“You’re not getting my message here. I want the rest of the powder, and I want it now.”
“We can’t help you.”
“No? Don’t force me to get serious. I don’t like hurting old ladies.”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-four!”
He eyeballed me, head to toe. “You don’t look it, baby. Twenty-four tops. But my advice is get rid of the scarf. Let that red hair shine. So...you going to give me what’s mine? Or you want to play rough?”
“How can we give you something we don’t have?” Beatriz asked.
Without bothering to answer, he angled the gun my way. “You. Take everything out of that file cabinet and throw it on the floor.”
“You,” he said to Beatriz. “Empty the desk.”
We did as he ordered, trashing the office, turning its neatly stacked records and drawers into a pile of rubbish.
“You girls got handbags? Dump them out on the desk.”
We emptied them, though I could have told him we didn’t walk around with bags of cocaine slung over our shoulders.
He eyeballed the pile on the desktop then waved the gun in my direction. “Nothing there, huh? All right. Now strip. You first.”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “That’s insulting. Do I look lumpy enough to have bags of cocaine strapped to my body?”
“That’s what I’ll find out. Maybe you use them for implants.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Rooms to Die For Page 16
