[M. by D. #5] The Design Is Murder

by Jean Harrington

Rossi pressed the off switch for the overheads with more force than necessary. “No, I haven’t received the autopsy report yet. But Hawkins’s rep with women is pretty unsavory.”

  “He has a housekeeper.” Boy, did he have a housekeeper. “She’ll be there whenever I am. And except for the first one or two planning sessions, I’ll be meeting tradespeople on the property. I won’t be alone with him.”

  “Good. That’s something anyway. Now all I have to worry about is this other guy. This Stahlman.” Rossi held the door open for me. “You know his last wife’s disappearance is still an unsolved case, but are you aware his first wife died of an overdose?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I never heard that.”

  “Well now you have. So don’t go swimming with the guy and don’t take any pills from him.”

  “Very funny, Rossi. For your information, he’s a consummate gentleman. Even served me tea, for Pete’s sake. From a silver pot.”

  Well, technically I had served him, but that was beside the point.

  I locked up and, tucking my arm in his, Rossi escorted me down Fern Alley to Fifth Avenue where he had parked his party wheels. Usually for everyday events like work or picking up a pizza and a bottle of Chianti, he drove his old, deliberately unwashed Mustang. Like his Hawaiian shirt theory, his dirty car theory aimed at disarming suspects into thinking he was an inept flatfoot. For special occasions though, like this apparently was, he rolled out his vintage Maserati. Sleek, silver and shined to the max, the car had been a gift from his late Uncle Beppe and Rossi loved it. No wonder. It was a special vehicle for a special guy and made me feel special too each time I slid onto the red leather passenger seat beside him. Like now.

  So he did have a big surprise in mind, and I was aware of a rising excitement. What could it be?

  We drove to his secret destination with the car windows open. Through some miracle of Mother Nature, humidity didn’t clog the air. Instead, a dry Gulf breeze with a hint of jasmine and oleander wafted over us and riffled my red Irish curls. But I had terminal frizzies anyway, and Rossi actually liked my hair on the wild side.

  I tried to compensate for it by wearing rather conservative clothes—no super minis, no sky-high platforms, no XS sweaters. After all, I was in the taste business, although I’ve been known to tell my clients that style begins where the rules end, at least as far as interior design is concerned. But I digress.

  From Fifth Avenue we headed north on the Tamiami Trail, past the street leading to the Naples Beach Hotel, then past the Community Hospital and through two stop lights until we reached a set of stone markers that read Calista Sands. Rossi turned in between the markers and drove slowly along a lush, curvy street lined on either side with gracious, low-roofed houses of a comfortable but not ostentatious size.

  Quietly residential yet near enough to Fifth Avenue and Old Naples to be centrally located, Calista Sands was one of the neighborhoods in town I most admired. Too bad I couldn’t afford to live there.

  In fact, driving by one well-groomed property after the other, with their manicured lawns that even in the torrid midsummer heat were as green as if it were early May, I was drooling mentally.

  “Look at that one, Rossi,” I said, pointing to a house I especially liked. “And that one. It’s beautiful in here.”

  “I know,” he said, taking his attention from the road for a second to glance across the front seat and treat me to a big, white Chiclets grin.

  He was happy about something. That much was plain. But what?

  Rossi never drove fast, always five miles under the speed limit, never five miles over it. Tonight he was outdoing himself, driving the Maserati as slowly as if it were a sightseeing bus loaded with tourists. For some reason, he didn’t want me to miss a thing.

  We kept heading west, toward the setting sun, or more precisely, toward a wide finger of water, an inlet that marked the end of Calista Sands and the beginning of the Gulf of Mexico. At an empty waterfront lot covered with stubbly sawgrass and sprouting a For Sale sign, he stopped and turned off the motor.

  “What do you think?” he asked, turning to me. “Do you like it?”

  Though a light bulb had popped on in my head, I said, “Like what?”

  “The lot. It’s empty.”

  “I can see that.”

  A frown replaced his grin. “You’re not making this easy for me.”

  “Rossi.” I took his hand in mine. “Are you saying you want to buy this lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “And build a house on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I in the picture?”

  “Triple yes. You’re the reason I’ve been looking.”

  “You have? I didn’t know that.”

  “The surprise,” he said.

  “Oh. Right. How long?”

  “Three hundred feet deep by one fifty wide.”

  “No, I mean how long have you been looking for land?”

  “Since the day you proposed.” The grin was back.

  I had to smile, remembering how the duvet cover had slipped and... “I did propose to you, didn’t I?”

  “Positively, and I accepted. So don’t try to wiggle out of anything.” His grip on my hand tightened. “You’re mine, and I want you. I’ve wanted you since the day we met. I think it was those little green shorts you had on that did it. And your sorrow over losing Jack. I knew in that moment you were a woman for a lifetime and...” his voice faltered, “...I’ve never told you this, but I envied Jack that day. And there’s something else, too...I was grateful to him for dying and leaving you free for me.” He let go of my hand and stared into my eyes as if he could still look but had lost the right to touch. “Do you hate me for that?”

  Tears sprang into my eyes. I swiped at them with the back of my hand. “No. Never. I love you for your honesty.” And I did. Life had taken Jack, my first love, but had given me a second chance at happiness. I’d be a fool to let it slip away. I retook Rossi’s hand and squeezed hard, letting my fingers tell him what I was too soggy to say. We spent the next several minutes acting like teenagers in love before he said, “Shall we get out and look around?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  We made our way over coarse patches of scrub grass. On both sides of the lot, well-cared-for houses faced the shimmering blue Gulf, their screened-in lanais taking advantage of the view. In front of the one on the left, a glistening Chris-Craft was moored to a small wooden dock.

  “The inlet has Gulf access,” Rossi said, pride of place already clear on his face.

  “It’s wonderful. The view, the neighborhood, the surrounding houses. Only one thing is bothering me.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, sounding faintly alarmed as if I had noticed something he hadn’t.

  “It’s so perfect, it has to be expensive.”

  He shook his head, visibly relieved that I had no other objection. “No, not really. It’s been on the market since the beginning of the housing crisis. The owner is eager to sell.”

  “May I ask the price?”

  “No.”

  “Or how you intend to pay for it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Like the Cheshire cat’s, his grin reached both ears. He was enjoying himself. On the other hand, I was getting ticked. Halfway back to the car, I stopped mid-stride. “If you trusted me, you’d answer my question.”

  “Of course I trust you. Implicitly. But—”

  “Nothing matters until you reach the ‘but.’ So why won’t you answer the question?”

  “As you pointed out, this location is perfect for us, and I have no intention of risking a ‘No, Rossi, it’s too expensive.’”

  He took my arm. Though I tried to shrug away, he held on tight and together we wended our way over the rough grass back to the Maserati.

  Once inside the car, he said, “Let’s watch the sunset for a while.”

  “Fine.” I stared straight ahead at a frieze of palm trees lining the shore and beyond at the blue
Gulf water.

  “You asked if I trusted you,” Rossi said softly.

  “It was a logical question.” Ice frosted my tone.

  “Now I’m asking you the same question.”

  I half turned to face him. “You’re very good at interrogation. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “You’re not going to give an inch, are you?”

  “All I want to hear, Rossi, is what the damn lot costs. What’s wrong with that? You said you’re buying it with me in mind.”

  “Even in Dorchester I’ll bet people don’t ask the price of a gift.”

  “Oh.” I put my hands on my hips, letting my left elbow jab him in the ribs. “So now you’re insulting my background.”

  He laughed. Out loud. “God, you’re impossible.”

  At his laughter, my anger fizzled out like a wet firecracker. “I think we’re having a lover’s quarrel.”

  “Those are the best kind, the aftermath is so great. This parcel of land is my gift to you. Your name will be on the deed. And on the house I want to build here.” His gaze left the view to focus on me. “You spend your life creating beautiful houses for other people. Isn’t it time you had one of your own?”

  “And for you?”

  “Yes, for the both of us.”

  I exhaled and nodded, partly satisfied and partly not. Rossi’s gesture was beautiful. How could I not love him for it? But dammit, I did want to know how much the lot cost.

  I eyeballed the For Sale sign. I could call the listing agent and ask the price. That would be sneaky, though, and I couldn’t cheapen Rossi’s gift that way, but I did huff out a sigh.

  Like Kay Hawkins, I wasn’t sure how I felt about being surprised and wondered, suddenly, if James Stahlman had any more in store for Kay. And if Rossi had any more for me. I didn’t know how Kay might feel about that, but I knew secret surprises weren’t easy for a redhead from Dorchester.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tanned and terrific in a new butter-yellow sundress and matching espadrilles that wrapped around her ankles, Lee St. James waltzed into work the next morning. All smiles, she caught me in a bear hug and said, “I want y’all to know I’ve been on the best second honeymoon ever.”

  I believed her. Always beautiful, today she radiated happiness.

  “So Hilton Head is a good vacation destination?”

  “I can’t rightly say, Deva. I didn’t see much of the town.”

  “No?” I smiled but tried to hide it.

  “Uh-uh. Just the little bitty beach in front of our hotel and the dining room. Though we mostly ordered in room service.”

  “And how was the room service?” I arched an eyebrow.

  She perched on the Chiavari chair behind the bureau plat. “I wish I could say, but if my momma were alive, she’d be shocked if I did.”

  “That good?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She blushed and changed the subject. “When we got home, though, we had some bad news waiting for us.”

  “Oh? Sounds serious.”

  She nodded, frowning. “It is, even if Paulo says it’s a first-world problem.”

  I sank onto the zebra settee across from her. “Lee, explain, please.”

  Her lips trembled ever so slightly. “We’re being evicted.”

  “From your apartment?”

  “Yes. And the owner didn’t tell us why. Just wants us out as soon as our lease is up—at the end of the month. It’s not fair. We thought the lease was being renewed, and we’ve taken such good care of—”

  “I know you have.” I blew out a breath. “Now what?”

  “Well, we’ll look for a temporary place if we have to. But what we really want to do is buy a house. Paolo says we can afford a condo to start. Something like yours at Surfside, with two bedrooms and a lanai and a pool, would be just about perfect.”

  “Funny you should say that. My place is going up for sale as soon as I get around to putting it on the market.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened into two blue pools. “Wait till Paulo hears that. Do y’all mean it?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, deciding in that instant.

  Though I hadn’t a clue as to how much Rossi would pay for the Calista lot, I did have an idea of what a lieutenant in the Naples P.D. earned. So unless he had more surprises in store, we’d need the equity from both my condo and his house in Countryside to build our new dream home.

  “My goodness,” Lee said. “I leave for a week and come back to all kinds of changes.”

  “True.” I laughed. “There’s been a lot of excitement around here in the last few days.”

  We spent the next couple of hours straightening merchandise and greeting drop-in browsers. We were catching up on girl talk when a tall, statuesque brunette with excellent carriage strode past the front window. A moment later, James Stahlman’s fiancée, Kay Hawkins, pushed open the shop door, sending the bells into their usual frenzy.

  Holding her shoulders as square as a sergeant-at-arms, she smiled a small smile at the sight of me. “Deva, I was hoping you’d be here. We need to talk.”

  “Kay, how stunning you look.” And she did, in a smart black sheath and leopard print pumps.

  After I introduced Lee, Kay checked her watch. I could have told her it wasn’t quite eleven.

  “Is lunch possible?” she asked. “My treat. I know it’s early, but I was hoping you might have some free time. We really need to talk.”

  “Of course. I’m sure Lee can spare me for an hour or so.”

  I reached underneath the sales counter for my purse, wondering what this emergency visit was all about. I thought we’d nailed the color scheme for James’s house—basically an ivory envelope with flashes of cobalt and coral. There hadn’t been time to select fabric for his sofas and chairs, or to shop for lamps and other accessories. In interior design, hurry wasn’t the path to a polished effect, and I hoped Kay understood that. More than a little concerned she would insist on a rush job, I accompanied her along Fifth Avenue to the Magnolia Café, too preoccupied to enjoy the breeze or the sunshine or the flowers along the way.

  As we settled into a booth, she dealt me another surprise. Raising her chin, she flung her chestnut hair from her face and said, “I’m going to be honest here, Deva. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have hired you to redo James’s house.”

  A challenge. Okay. I raised my chin, but no point in trying to fling back my hair. I have the kind that doesn’t fling. My chin had to do double duty. “Why not, Kay?”

  My tone must have been super cool, for she flushed and reached across the table to give my hand a quick squeeze. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Good. Because it sounded shitty.” Not a professional response but one straight from the heart.

  To her credit, Kay laughed just as a waiter with the bearing of an ambassador to Great Britain approached and placed menus in front of us. Before he said a thing, she waved him away with, “Just water for now.”

  She turned back to me. “Your reputation around town is marvelous. Several people at the club have been singing your praises.”

  Somewhat mollified, I picked up my menu. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Our waiter returned with goblets of water and a basket of rolls. This time he hovered.

  “Give us a few more minutes,” Kay said, dismissing him.

  Obviously we weren’t going to eat anytime soon. But that was fine. All I really wanted was to hear the reason for this meeting.

  “What has me concerned, Deva, isn’t your lack of designing skill. It’s Stew Hawkins.”

  “Stew?” I leaned forward and forgot all about the menu. “Why is he the problem?”

  “You know we used to be married?”

  “Yes. James mentioned that.”

  “Our divorce—our whole marriage—was a nightmare.” She frowned but for a moment, only then her dark eyes took on a shine. “The ending settlement, however, was almost worth what I went through with that—”

 
“Ladies, we have several specials today.” The ambassador had returned.

  “No recitals,” Kay declared, picking up the menu with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll have the grilled chicken Caesar, with a side of fresh fruit.”

  “Make that two,” I said.

  When we were alone again, she said, “As they say, all’s well that ends well. But the end isn’t in sight yet. Not completely. That bastard—” she finished the sentence this time, “—bought the house across from James.”

  “I know. James told me.”

  “Can you believe it? The nerve of him.” She plucked a roll out of the bread basket, buttered it and bit off a chunk.

  Having her ex living across the street sure hadn’t affected her appetite.

  “No need to worry,” I said. “I’ll be careful not to create parallel designs.”

  She stopped chewing and swallowed. “Parallel designs? What does that mean?”

  “One house copying the look of another.”

  As if swatting away flies, she waved a hand in the air. “I’m not worried about that. I intend never to step foot in Stew’s place. Do whatever you like. Make the interiors twins, for all I care.” She forgot about the bread and, leaning over the table, lowered her voice. “But you do have to promise me, Deva, that you will never talk to Stew about me, not even so much as mention my name.”

  “I assure you, I—”

  She raised a palm for silence. “And never, under any circumstances are you to tell him what James and I are doing or planning or saying. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  Annoyance stiffening my spine, I sat up soldier straight. “I have no intention of doing any such thing,” I said, for emphasis leaving a little space between each word.

  “Excellent. Because he bought the house on Whiskey Lane for one reason only. To torment me.”

  Too irritated with the woman to simply agree, I said, “Isn’t that rather bizarre, Kay? I mean your divorce is final, and he remarried and all, though I will admit Connie Rae’s...Mrs. Hawkins’s death was an unexpected blow.”

  “He probably killed her,” Kay said smoothly, breaking off a piece of roll and popping it in her mouth.

  “That’s quite an accusation.” And this was quite a conversation. I was an interior designer, not a shrink. Or a homicide detective, though Rossi would laugh to hear me admit that.