My first instinct was to call Rossi and tell him about the omission I’d discovered. But with a hand on the desk phone, ready to punch in his number, I slowly cradled the receiver instead. Rossi had told me repeatedly to stay out of his cases. To do my own job and let him do his. This time, not without misgivings, I’d do as he had so often asked. For as upsetting as my realization might be, it offered no proof of any wrongdoing, and I had no desire to implicate anyone in a crime, especially someone I trusted.
However, convincing myself not to act required two glasses of pinot and a bad night’s sleep. In a dream—or was it a nightmare?—Rossi said I had no faith in the police.
“But I do,” I kept telling him, “I do.” And I kept telling myself that I meant it.
Chapter Forty-Two
Thursday evening the weather cooperated beautifully—no stifling humidity, no tropical downpour, no sullen clouds concealing what promised to be a harvest moon. Cool autumn breezes laced with jasmine greeted me as I parked in the Sprague House driveway. I pulled way up, not worried about being boxed in, since I planned to stay until after all the guests had left.
Pools of light streamed from the front windows and spilled out onto the lawn. Stationed along the walk, welcoming luminaries waited to be lit at seven o’clock, an hour from now. I popped the Audi trunk and removed two large paper bags. One held boxes of miniature goodies from Lacie’s Cupcakes. The other, packets of cinnamon potpourris and chunky pillar candles in various heights. I’d chosen candles that were lit by tiny triple A batteries rather than live flames. The last thing I wanted was to burn down the Showhouse, and on opening night of all nights.
Inside, the rooms hummed with activity. Lamps in the newly glammed-up living room and library glowed softly. Farther down the hall, in the dining room, the table had been set as if for a festive party. Across the way, in the Florida room, Bunny Wilson, one of Naples’s premier designers, was busy arranging potted plants under the windows overlooking the Gulf. She waved as I hurried by, but neither of us had time to chat, not with the opening a mere hour away.
Summerdaze Décors had finished the central hall to perfection. A vigorous taupe-and-ivory William Morris wallpaper covered the walls, and on the dark polished floor, an oriental runner in taupe, green and red shot straight as an arrow right to the kitchen entryway. At last, every footfall didn’t echo throughout the big, high-ceilinged rooms.
I snapped on the kitchen’s overhead fan light, the Tiffany-style sconces by the sink and the brass pendant fixture over the stove. Once I had the fat pillar candles adding ambient lighting here and there, I arranged the goodies on a pedestal cake plate and placed it on the island. The rest of Gracie’s morsels I stored in the refrigerator. As I fanned paper napkins around the cupcakes and shook the fragrant potpourris into bowls, the string orchestra tuned up. They were close by, probably in the roomy alcove under the stairwell. Soon Handel’s Water Music drifted through the new-old rooms, elegant and measured, the notes falling as gently as raindrops on sand.
I removed a soft polishing cloth from one of the bags I’d carried in, then tucked the empty bags in the cupboard under the sink. A quick swipe of the cloth over the kitchen surfaces and my gorgeous, nonfunctioning room would be ready for company.
I hoped to God that Rossi would show up. But if he did, then what? How would I react? What would I say to him? I like your tie. Or something equally inane? My mind went blank. Tonight wasn’t the night for solving personal problems. Whatever obstacles Rossi and I faced would have to wait until this was over. To keep from thinking, I kept my hands busy dusting.
I wiped down the stove and the window sills and the honed soapstone countertops. The island’s dark wood had also collected a dusty film. In one of the side panels, the robes and faces of long-ago saints, with all their creases and grooves, needed an especially good wipe. I ran the cloth over the central figure—Mother Mary?—and for first time noticed the loving expression in her eyes, and the sadness of her wooden gaze. Flecks of dust marred her cheeks. Bending down, I rubbed the cloth briskly over her face and the sculpted cowl covering her hair.
As I rubbed the Virgin—for I believed she could be no other—the carved panel, its hinges creaking in protest, swung open and hit me in the knee. “Ouch!” I said and glanced down. Omigod. What was that? A hidden compartment? Stifling a scream, I dropped the cloth on the floor and sank to my knees to peer inside.
Stuffed in the cavity, in neatly stacked tiers, were bag upon bag of white powder.
Cocaine. Or heroin. Or God knew what. Like the bag of white powder Beatriz found in Hugo’s room, it sure wasn’t sugar. But for sure it was a stash worth thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands. Even I knew that.
So had Hugo. No wonder he’d wanted to keep the altar in the Spanish Galleria where he could keep an eye on it. He must have known about this compartment and had hidden the drugs here. Even Beatriz, for all her arcane knowledge of Spanish antiques, wasn’t aware of the altar’s secret.
But why a hidden compartment in what had originally been an altar? To keep the precious Mass vessels—the candlesticks, the patens and goblets—safe from marauders? Or to hide monies collected from the faithful? I couldn’t think of any other reasons for it.
Disregarding the fancy dress, I slumped back on my heels. Now what? Call Rossi?
If I did, in no time a squad of police cruisers would surround Sprague Mansion with sirens blaring and blue lights flashing. Officers with guns strapped to their sides would come stomping in past the musicians and the guests. Great! A drug bust on opening night.
I couldn’t let that happen. Too many small businesses had sacrificed to make this event a success. Plus St. Martin’s House for the homeless was relying on the revenue we’d generate. The drugs had been safely hidden so far; they could stay where they were for a few more hours. No one would know.
Wait a minute. That wasn’t true. Somebody did know. Whoever killed Hugo knew.
“Deva, are you in here?”
Marian Stillwell. Good grief. “I’m over here, Marian. Dusting.”
I nudged the secret door closed and stood.
“Oh, there you are! Behind the island. You look lovely tonight. Very festive.” She glanced around. “And the kitchen is gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. It’s to die for.”
Oh God, that really could happen but I laughed as though I hadn’t a care in the world. “I’m so glad you like the effect, but the room’s totally dysfunctional, of course.”
“Not to worry,” she said. “It has a wonderful bling.”
More bling than you know, Marian.
“My congratulations on a job well done, Deva. Just to keep you informed, we’re all ready for our guests. The luminaries are lit, and the bartenders are ready to pour. This night’s going down in Naples history.”
Amen.
She turned to leave, her long navy skirt swirling about her ankles. “Bye, darling. I’d better make the rounds.”
The moment she left, I went back on my knees and pressed the Madonna’s head again. I had to know if I’d dreamed of the drug stash, or if it was real.
Real.
For sure Hugo’s killer knew about this and had shot him after learning where he’d hidden the drugs. Not before. That was the only scenario that made sense. So why was the cache still here? A not-so-wild guess—safety. The altar made an excellent hiding place, but retrieving the drugs from the Showhouse must have been too risky or the compartment would be empty by now. It was just a question of time before the murderer came looking for them.
Why make it easy for him? Or her?
The kitchen was quiet. I was alone with no one to see. Hands trembling, I reached in and removed four of the bags. I hurried over to the stove, shoved them into the copper kettle on the La Cornue top and replaced the lid. Several others I jammed into a covered casserole dish in one of the ovens.
I filled the bottom chiller drawers with more of the white bags and moved the box of cupcakes to the lowest shelf. If anyone peeked into the fridge, they wouldn’t see a thing out of place. A creak! I whirled around. The Madonna panel had swiveled wide open, exposing its gaping space and the dirty secret it concealed.
Where else? Where else? All that open shelving, damn it. Under the sink then.
I yanked open a cupboard door and pulled out one of the paper carryall bags. Hurrying back to the island, I bent down and loaded the bag with the remaining drugs, then slammed the creaky altar panel shut.
“Oh, this is beautiful!” a woman said, strolling in with a wineglass in one hand and a Judith Leiber clutch in the other.
“Thank you,” I said, striving for a calm tone. “I’m the designer.” As if I held an unsightly object I wanted to get rid of, I hustled my load of cocaine across the room and wedged it under the sink.
“You did a wonderful job.” Turning to her portly escort, she said, “Oh look at that stove, Harry. I just love it.”
Hoping my well-heeled guests would be well-mannered enough to look and not touch, I eyed them warily as they circled the room, sipping their drinks and commenting on the décor.
The music tempo picked up, and so did the crowd. Soon fifteen or twenty people joined me in the kitchen. I couldn’t keep an eye on all my hiding places, so I stood beside the stove. If anyone went to lift the lid on the copper kettle, I’d—
“Deva.”
“Rossi! You made it. I’m so glad.”
He was dressed in his most formal attire—navy blazer, chinos, white oxford cloth shirt, maroon-and-blue striped tie and polished loafers.
He gave me one of his head-to-toe appraisals. “Why’s your knee so red?”
Egads, nothing ever escaped him. “Banged it. Doesn’t hurt though.”
He nodded and glanced around the kitchen with approval in his I’m-proud-of-you smile. “The room looks great.” Then he eyeballed me again. “So do you. Nice dress. Kind of short.” He grinned. “I like them like that.”
“I know. I bought it with you in mind. You’re looking pretty special yourself.”
“Yeah.” He ran a finger under his collar. “I wore it with you in mind.”
“I know. Thank you.” Taking a chance at being rebuffed, I kissed his cheek. He didn’t even flinch. A good sign, that.
I really was delighted to see him, at least on one level, the personal one. On the other hand, I didn’t want any whistle-blowing until the open house ended at ten. If Rossi knew the kitchen contained enough contraband to make a Miami Vice cop go berserk, that cell phone would be out of his pocket in the twinkling of an eye.
The sensible thing for me to do was to tell him what I’d found before anything rough happened. But I had no intention of being sensible. Instead I crossed my fingers and hoped for the sake of the Showhouse and its homeless cause that I had one more hour of grace before anything nasty hit the fan.
Chapter Forty-Three
Seven o’clock melted into eight and eight into nine. A nervous wreck, I could hardly wait for ten and this nightmare to end.
Half the town, I swear, had wandered in and out of the kitchen. A lot of people I didn’t know, and some I did. Lee and Paulo had arrived at seven sharp. They were easily the most striking couple I’d ever laid eyes on. Alone each of them would garner attention. Together they lit up the room.
Lee, in cornflower-blue silk, came up to hug me hello. “This is fabulous, Deva.”
“Thanks to Paulo. Whoever buys the house can say a world-famous artist painted the kitchen.”
Paulo smiled his easy island smile. “I just followed instructions from the designer lady.”
Lee, ever the diplomat, said, “Y’all both deserve credit for the way this room looks. I love it.”
“So do I.”
I turned to a familiar voice. Claudia Lopez stood beside her smiling husband and, behind them, Oliver Ward with a beautiful Mrs. Ward on his arm. From all appearances, two happy, untroubled couples. If they were concerned about marital discord or fear of anyone’s extradition to a South American nation, there wasn’t a sign of it.
Knowing Rossi would leave no clue or lead unchecked, I was pleased Raúl hadn’t been accused of any wrongdoing—at least so far. But a harsh truth hung heavy in the air. Someone had killed José and Hugo, and that person was still at large, a person who probably knew the majestic carved island was Drug Central and might be in to clean it out anytime now. I prayed to God that time wouldn’t be tonight. But except for calling the police and throwing the whole place into pandemonium, there was little I could do except wait until ten o’clock and hope nothing would go wrong in the meantime.
Around seven-thirty, Sandra, the Design Mall receptionist, sexy in black tights and a flowered top, made a cameo appearance. Actually she took one look at Rossi and didn’t bother looking at anything else. Much as I hated to, I had to leave her clinging to his every word—spare as they were—and make a mad dash for the refrigerator. An elderly gentleman was about to open it.
“Looking for a bedtime snack?” I asked, racing up to him as he yanked open the door.
He laughed. “Never saw a fridge with shutter doors before. Wondered what the inside looked like.”
“Same old. Same old.”
“Yes, I see that,” he said, closing it.
“Care for a cupcake?” I asked, weaning him away from the fridge with a tempting morsel.
“Don’t mind if I do.” He selected a chocolate cupcake sprinkled with jimmies, gave me a courtly little bow and strolled away.
I went back to Rossi and Sandra, whose girlfriend was tugging on her to leave. She parted from Rossi reluctantly, waggling her fingers at him as she went.
“A conquest,” I said, trying not to look annoyed.
“A glass of wine?” he asked, smiling as if he had enjoyed himself.
“No thanks, not till this is over. I have to keep my wits about me.”
“You must be nervous.” He peered closer. “Your freckles are showing.”
Something else to worry about. “Oh, there’s a gal I should say hello to. Guard the stove, will, you, Rossi? Don’t let anybody touch that copper kettle. I’ll be right back.” I hurried off to stop a woman from searching the cupboards. She had opened the one under the sink and was peeking inside.
“May I help you find something?” I asked.
She whirled around. “Oh no. Just wondering about storage space. I heard Sprague Mansion will be up for sale when the Showhouse closes, and my husband and I are very interested.”
“Wonderful. Marian Stilwell is the person to speak to. She’s here somewhere. Pretty gray hair, navy gown.”
The woman took the hint, closed the cupboard door and left in search of Marian.
I’d been so busy running interference all evening that at nine I was surprised to see Imogene walk in on Harlan’s arm. In a brown sheath dress, with no jewelry and little makeup, she was a subdued version of the Imogene I’d first met with her tube tops and glittery nails. I didn’t miss the glitter or the tops but I sure did miss her smile. Something was definitely wrong.
She left Harlan’s side and hurried over to me. “Deva, this room is gorgeous,” she said, hugging me close. “I love all the colors.” She sighed. “I’ve always loved color.”
“You’re color enough for any room, honey,” Harlan said, coming up from behind and placing a proprietary hand on her arm.
“You think so?” she asked in a subdued, little-girl voice.
Yes! I wanted to shout. You’re marvelous. Both you and your love of color.
But this was the wrong time to go down that road, so I changed the subject. “Harlan, tell me about the Caldwell Prize? Afraid I haven’t heard.”
“I lost. To a Miami firm.” He shrugged. “The results were probably rigged. You know how things are done on the East Coast.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, enjoying every syllable of the lie.
“Yes, it’s such a shame,” Imogene agreed, “and after Syd and I went all over the place singing about your entry.”
Harlan snorted. “Ha! That’s the reason I lost.”
Imogene’s face, none too happy to begin with, fell like a collapsed cake. Tears started up in her eyes. Had he tried, Harlan couldn’t have hurt her more. I had a feeling those tears weren’t the first she’d shed all day. Or in the days before this one either. Clearly the girl was trapped and needed help.
As if he heard my silent shout, a violinist strolled into the kitchen and filled the air with a song, an old love song. “La Vie En Rose,” of all things. He stopped in front of Imogene, and playing his heart out, he laid his music like a gift at her feet.
Transformed by his tuxedo into an urbane presence, the bald, skinny violinist was none other than Syd. I wondered if he’d seen Imogene come in and followed her out here to the kitchen. If so, good. He wasn’t a quitter, and I admired him for that. Caught up in the magic of the moment, I even forgot about the drug stash for a while.
After humming a few bars, Imogene joined in, her rich soprano soaring into the air in harmony with Syd and his song. Was he aware that rose was a shade akin to pink and that
he had chosen the perfect music? He played the last chord, lowered his bow, and smiled. Somehow I knew he had chosen deliberately. And perfectly.
“How are you, Imogene?” he asked, his voice soft.
“Oh, Syd,” she cried, flinging her arms around him, holding him close. “I’ve missed you.”
“We can fix that,” he said. “What do you say we talk for a while? My gig’s almost over.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Harlan said. “She’s with me.”
Syd ran his gaze over Harlan, who was a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier, but in all ways that mattered, Syd was the giant. With a flick of his eyes, he dismissed Harlan and, holding his violin and bow in one hand, he held out the other to Imogene.
Rooms to Die For Page 21
