“We’d love to. I’m dying to see the kitchen now that it’s finished.”
“Well, it’s nearly finished but not quite. It still needs some final details. So tomorrow I’ll scout the collectibles and thrifts for vintage accessories. Then the following day I have an appointment with Oliver Kent. But after that I plan to spend more time here. Promise.”
“That would be nice, but do what you have to do. I’m managing just fine.”
“You certainly are.”
She tucked her school project back in the portfolio and together we locked up.
“Let’s leave the day’s receipts for tomorrow’s deposit. We both need to get home. I know you always dazzle Paulo, and tonight I’m in a hurry to razzle-dazzle Rossi. If he shows up.”
A big if.
He showed. The minute I pulled onto Surfside’s tarmac, I saw lamplight gleaming in my condo windows.
Rossi’s here surged through my veins as I hurried up the walk, my new haircut hiding the scar, my makeup hiding the fatigue, and the low-cut halter top hiding very little.
I turned the key in the front door lock carefully, not wanting to damage the new Tropical Tangerine nail polish, and swept in.
“Rossi, I’m home!”
“So am I.” He came out of the kitchen, and at the sight of me stopped mid-stride. “Wow!”
“I want you to know that’s my second wow today.”
“Why am I not surprised?” His finger described a circle. “Turn around.”
I obliged, ending up where I had started, facing him.
“You’re yourself, only more so,” he said. “Whatever you did, I’m crazy about it. You look gorgeous.” He held out his arms as if to pull me into them, but didn’t move any closer.
“No hug? No kiss?”
“I don’t want to mar that perfection.”
“Oh, go ahead. Makeup is a renewable art form.”
He laughed and crossed the room in a couple of strides. He took me in his arms, but still no hug or kiss, just a long, penetrating look from under those hooded lids. “Do you realize that you and Beatriz could have been killed yesterday?”
“Of course I realize that. The guy had a loaded gun in his hand.”
“Do you remember my asking you not to go back to the mall until all this was settled? That it was too dangerous for you?”
“She called, Rossi. I couldn’t refuse.”
“You needn’t have refused. Why didn’t you make a call of your own? Have me go with you?”
“Then you might have been killed. He was careless around two unarmed women. God knows what might have happened if you were there and confronted him.”
“Your logic is anything but logical.”
“Not so. I’m being totally logical. As well as very rational. So is Beatriz. She thinks José may have known Hugo was dealing drugs. Do you think he did?”
“Deva.”
I ignored the disapproval in his voice. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the case.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Rossi had morphed into total detective mode. I hated when he did that, but didn’t let it stop me. “Beatriz still thinks Raúl killed José, but what do you think? You’ve really never said.”
“You know better than to ask.”
“But I am asking. Because to tell you the truth, Rossi, I don’t believe Raúl is a murderer. Hugo is far more likely involved. I think the drugs are proof of—”
He didn’t want to hear any of this and cut off my soliloquy in the most effective way possible. With a kiss. When it ended, and sadly all kisses did, I figured having him shut me up so easily was a bad precedent. So I asked another question. “Why didn’t you come by last night? Too angry?”
He shook his head. “Too busy...well, to be honest some of both. I didn’t want to say anything I might regret. I figured a little cooling-down time would be good.”
“I was already cool. So you were too mad to come by.”
“You could say that, but I got over it, and here I am again. You’re a magnet. An irresistible force. Especially looking the way you do.” He peered closer. “Your eyelashes are fluttery.”
“They’re fake.”
“Then you’re ready for the real deal.” That’s when he began kissing me in earnest, and the makeup job went all to hell.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Anytime I went on a hunt for vintage accessories, Treasure Island, Naples’s biggest and oldest collectibles—antiques store, never let me down. It didn’t the next day, either, when I searched for cranberry glass, copper pots and a silver tea service. Within an hour, I found everything I needed, including a set of French apothecary jars with wonderful gold lettering and a ruffled fifties apron to drape over a counter. Those little touches would make the Showhouse kitchen look like a functioning, lived-in room.
The hunt finished, I drove to Deva Dunne Interiors, and together Lee and I polished the silver and copper until they gleamed. I’d already loaded the creamwear collection into the trunk, so, good to go, I headed for Sprague Mansion.
Arranging the final finishes was always the fun part of designing. As I’d envisioned, the cranberry goblets fit the shelves above the sink to perfection, and in the open shelves on either side, the soft luster of the creamwear offered a quiet contrast to the vivid glass. To my relief, the larger details that I’d been concerned might not be installed in time—the copper-toned pendant light and the shutter panels for the fridge—were in place as well.
The La Cornue hardly needed embellishment. Still, the most imposing of the copper pans, a big lidded kettle, added even more eye-catching bling to the beast. On the island, the silver service looked like a tea party waiting to happen. I draped the apron next to the silver, letting its long organdy ties float over the side as if dropped there by accident. Though originally created to dispense sacred bread and wine, the island, with its dark carved wood, looked as if it had been built just for this room. I hoped the exposure would help Beatriz find a buyer for it. Preferably a local church that would return it to a hallowed setting.
Only a few minutes were needed to arrange the rest of the objects and stash the empty bags and boxes in the cupboard under the sink. All that was missing was a delectable aroma. A roast, or a freshly baked pie would be perfect, but potpourri would have to do. Maybe in cinnamon and cloves, those warm, welcoming holiday aromas everyone loved.
As a final touch, I arranged three small tripods in a prominent place on the countertop and leaned ads for Kustom Kitchens, Breeze City and the Galleria against them. Then I fanned out their business cards in front of the ads. And on the theory that a little discreet advertising wasn’t out of line for Deva Dunne Interiors, I filled a small green glass dish with my own business cards and placed it on the island.
I was searching in the tote for my camera when footfalls clattered along the central hallway. Not for the first time I wished someone would put a carpet runner out there.
Camera in hand, I looked at the doorway, wanting to catch the initial expression on my visitor’s face. That would reveal a lot. After all, first impressions are truth tellers.
He stepped into the open doorway. “My, my,” was all he said. But that was enough.
Harlan Conway. He likes it. Before he could move another step, I snapped his picture. “For my design portfolio,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Deva,” he replied, strolling in and looking around, his trained eye not missing a single detail, yet not giving anything away. I waited for him to say more, wondering if he would admit he liked the concept even if the kitchen was a huge departure from his cutting-edge, postmodern specialty.
He wandered the room, spending time surveying the La Cornue—which it deserved—and finally said, “This doesn’t look a bit like what you did in Imogene’s p
lace.” He allowed himself a snide smile. “So you sing more than one song?”
“Absolutely. And so do you. I’m sure you can do more than create boxes on stilts.”
Hey, I could fling cracks around too. His being short-listed for the Caldwell Prize didn’t have me intimidated for an instant. Neither did his perfect tan and flawless platinum hair. Not to mention his ivory linen slacks and moody blue shirt. Or the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous.
My comment didn’t bother him though—which I also found mildly insulting. He just shrugged and said, “Not so you’d notice.”
Whatever that meant.
“How about another picture?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“In front of the stove would be good,” I said. “And another one next to the island.”
Like Annie Leibovitz on a shoot, I clicked away, but Harlan didn’t seem to mind. In fact I think he enjoyed the attention, standing where I directed, striking poses. The photographs would be great for my design portfolio, and I mustered some genuine gratitude for his cooperation.
Finally, pictures taken, I asked, “What brings you here today?”
“Lunch with Marian Stilwell. She’s thinking of adding a wing to her home. For the grandkids. While I was here, I thought I’d catch what the local talent had to offer.”
There went the spurt of gratitude, right down the drain. “Well, don’t pick up a disease from us or anything,” I said, as nasty as I could ever remember being. No, that wasn’t true—in kindergarten I had once been mean to a little girl named Veronica. She had a mother, and I had just lost mine, so I lashed out. I’ve always been ashamed of my behavior that day, but not this time. Harlan Conway was impossible, but what really pissed me off was that I knew he’d look like a GQ centerfold in those photographs.
Chapter Thirty-Five
At noon the next day, poised to leave for the mall, I said to Lee, “If you have time, you might look for Christmas items in some of those catalogs. We should start the holiday ordering this week.”
I grabbed the tote and the manila envelope of Harlan’s pictures. I was pretty sure Claudia and Oliver would find them of interest. In fact, as I’d suspected, Harlan looked so drop-dead handsome in most of the shots, he’d be a great asset to any glossy publication.
One hand on the door handle, I said, “If anyone calls looking for me, say I’m at a client meeting.”
“By anyone, do y’all mean the lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“All right, but he’ll want to know where your meeting is. He worries about you.”
“He’ll worry more if he knows I’m at the mall, so just say a meeting. It isn’t exactly a lie. I do have a meeting.”
“I won’t let on, but it won’t be easy.”
On some level, I knew Lee didn’t approve of my deceiving Rossi, but I had to. I’d promised Oliver Kent I’d be there, and I hadn’t exactly promised Rossi I wouldn’t. Besides, on an average day, hundreds of people walked in and out of the place. Why not me?
* * *
A half hour early and telling myself I had a bona fide justification for the visit, I strolled over to the Library. I’d squeeze in a quick lunch before meeting with Claudia and Oliver. As I waited for Dan to bring me a BLT and a bottle of water, I slid the Showhouse photos of Harlan out of the envelope. My favorite was a shot of him in front of the island, smiling into the camera, his perfect teeth on full display. The one I took of him and Marian Stilwell before they left for lunch was good too. For the sake of Showhouse PR, it should probably be included in Claudia’s magazine. I took a second look at the one Marian took of Harlan and me standing companionably side by side, one of his arms draped as casually over my shoulder as the sleeve of a twinset. Marian must have said “Cheese!” for I was smiling.
Dan set my lunch down on the table. I laid the picture on top of the others and picked up a dainty sandwich wedge. For some reason, Dan had cut the BLT into triangles. He needn’t have bothered being so fancy. I was hungry and bit into it with gusto.
“Pretty lady.”
Mid-bite, I looked up and swallowed fast. “Austin! How are you?”
He didn’t answer, but stood by my table clutching an unopened bottle. “We have the same water,” he said, pointing to mine and holding his out in one hand so I could read the label.
“Yup. Exactly the same.”
“That’s nice,” he said.
“Very nice. How have you been?” Maybe this time he’d answer.
But his attention was riveted on the photograph of Harlan and me. He stared at it, mesmerized, then began shaking his head. Back and forth, back and forth, left to right, faster and faster.
“No. No. No,” he said, his voice rising with each repetition. People nearby looked over, their food forgotten.
“What’s the matter?” I asked him. “This time you have to answer me, Austin.”
“No. No. No!” He was shouting now.
Grabbing her purse, the woman at the next table rushed from the café. Dan poked his head out of the kitchen opening. “What’s going on out here?”
Dan didn’t get an answer either. Without another word, Austin fled the Library, loping toward the mall entrance as if the demons of hell were chasing him.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, seated on a faux leather chair in Oliver’s office, I wrenched my attention back to what he and Claudia were saying. What about a glossy magazine in four weeks, with a new issue to follow six months later? And what did I think about a monthly speaker series? One of the empty shops would make a charming lecture hall. If they started a series, they’d love me to give the first lecture.
Flattered by their confidence, I quickly agreed.
“What would you speak about?” Claudia asked. “So we can have some posters and flyers printed.”
I shrugged, then said off the top of my head, “What the colors in your rooms reveal about you. How does that sound?”
“Excellent!” Oliver declared. “Involve the audience emotionally. That’s always a good way to go.”
“I’m also planning to write a weekly column for the Naples Daily News,” Claudia said. “It’ll feature a different shop and a different designer each week. You’ll be the first person I’ll interview.”
Their ideas were all good, creative and fun, a terrific way to bring the Naples Design Mall to the public’s attention. But as interesting as all this was, my mind was elsewhere, and I could hardly wait for our meeting to end.
I was about to make an excuse and murmur that I had another appointment when Oliver cleared his throat. “Since you’ve been involved in everything that’s happened around here lately, Deva, we thought you should be front and center in our publicity campaign. That’s why we asked you to join us today. We have to do something to counteract the effect these...ah...incidents have—”
“Not incidents, Oliver, crimes.”
He had the good grace to flush. “Exactly. As I was saying, you’ve been involved—victimized, really—so we want you to be part of the solution.”
Solution? Any solution would involve an arrest and a trial in a court of law. Damage control was what Oliver really meant. And he had chosen me to be poster girl for his squeaky clean mall. The crime-free shopping mecca for all your design needs. So many people depended on the mall that I would hate to see it fail, but let’s be honest here—no way could two murders, a mugging and an armed assault be reduced to incidents.
I stood. “It’s lovely to be included in all this, and I hope you’ll go ahead with your plans, but I’m afraid I won’t be back here until the culprit—or culprits—are found. Lieutenant Rossi’s orders.”
Feeling a little used, I marched square-shouldered from Oliver’s office. I couldn’t blame him for wanting some damage control, and the PR plans they’d run past me sou
nded wonderful, but unless the murders—and the assaults—were solved, no amount of happy publicity would save the Naples Design Mall. Despite the jaunty red carnation in his buttonhole, Oliver was running scared, and Rossi—well, he was running an investigation that so far hadn’t nailed anyone.
He needed some help, whether he knew it or not. I hurried out of the mall without stopping to chat with anyone, revved up the Audi and drove to 1900 Seventy-Fifth Terrace, the home of Austin and Elaine McCahey.
Chapter Thirty-Six
A modest tile-roofed bungalow, the house sat on a swath of neatly trimmed lawn. Orange bougainvillea blooming near the front door gave the property a shot of cheerful color.
So far, so good.
I pressed the bell. In moments, the door swung wide. At the sight of me, Elaine McCahey’s mouth fell open. “Mrs. Dunne, what a pleasant surprise! Come in. Come in.”
“Deva, please,” I said, stepping from the foyer, with its terra-cotta walls, into a vibrant-hued interior. Obviously Elaine wasn’t afraid of color. The living room walls pulsed with an intense lime green, and beyond, the open kitchen glowed sunflower yellow.
Though strong, the tones harmonized, each one melding pleasantly into the next. In bare feet, jeans and a loose white T-shirt, Elaine seemed far more relaxed than the tense, worried woman who had visited my shop. From that I guessed all was well with her son. I sure hoped so, as I sat on her poppy-colored couch with a manila envelope containing Harlan’s picture on my lap.
I glanced around. Elaine took pride in her home, and in her cooking, if the luscious aroma coming from her stove was any indication.
“You’re having chili tonight? Smells delicious.”
“It’s Austin’s favorite. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, but I can’t,” I said, and to get past the awkward moment, added, “Your home is lovely. You’ve handled the Southwestern theme very well.”
Rooms to Die For Page 18
