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

by Jean Harrington

  Rossi’s fork struck the tabletop. Hard. “The snakes?”

  “Yes, in the back of the truck. Pythons. Cages full of them.”

  “You’ve lost me, Deva. Would you please start over again? From the beginning.”

  “Like an investigation, you mean?”

  “Deva.”

  In between delicious bites of cold Gulf shrimp, I related my adventure. Rossi didn’t think a truck full of pythons was a big deal. After all, he pointed out, they were in cages. But he was intensely curious about Mr. Mike Hammerjack and said, “An ex-con might be the biggest snake of all.”

  “He’s fulfilled his debt to society, and now he’s out on parole. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.” Rossi shrugged. “He may be rehabilitated. On the other hand, he may just be good at following rules. Bottom line, he’s a convicted criminal. An embezzler. You said ten to twenty in the state penitentiary? And he’s somebody you’re thinking of doing business with? Not good, Deva, not good at all.”

  Experienced in law enforcement, Rossi understood the criminal mind. I’d be foolish not to listen to him. “Well, our business would be for a good cause, but I have wondered exactly what he did.”

  “Why don’t we find out?” Pushing his shrimp cocktail aside, he removed his cell phone from a pocket and pressed the station’s call number. “This is Lieutenant Rossi. Connect me with criminal investigation.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days later I stood uneasily in the foyer of 595 Whiskey Lane, holding a portfolio containing color boards, paint chips and fabric samples.

  Only a few days had passed since...well, since Connie Rae had passed, and despite the phone call summoning me there today, I was uncertain about how I’d find the bereaved husband.

  I needn’t have worried. Stew Hawkins strode out of his bedroom wing with a smile on his face and no sign whatsoever of grief.

  “Glad you could make it, Deva. I want to get the place fixed up as soon as possible. No point in letting what happened keep us waiting.”

  Wow. That gave new meaning to the word cold. Did Stew have no regret? No sorrow?

  I cleared my throat before answering. “My schedule is slower in the summer, so that won’t be a problem, but ah, wouldn’t you prefer to wait until after the funeral?”

  He shook his head. “No funeral. Connie Rae’s family in Arkansas wants a funeral, that’s up to them. I can send her ashes. But there won’t be a funeral on this end.”

  So Teresa had been right. “I see,” I murmured.

  “No, you don’t. I can tell by your voice.” He cocked a finger, beckoning me forward. He led the way through the dining room and rotunda and into the great room. “The truth is, I hardly knew the kid. Married her on a spree...shouldn’t have happened.” A pause. “We were in Vegas. I was drunk. You do stupid things when you’re under the influence.”

  He’d have no argument from me there. But it still didn’t explain what had caused the death of an apparently healthy twenty-two-year-old girl. Much as I wanted to know, I didn’t have the nerve to ask. Turned out I didn’t have to.

  With his next breath, Stew blurted, “She had a bad heart condition. Real bad. Never told me a thing about it. So that’s how much I knew about her. Nothing, when you come right down to it.”

  I ventured a question. “Her heart failed? Is that how she died?”

  “Yeah, natural causes, the coroner said. Guess I should be glad they didn’t find something to hang on me. Especially after Kay...she’s my ex...got through bad-mouthing me to the cops. That was a while back, but the cops got memories like elephants. The slightest slip, they’ll nail me.”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? Life goes on. Come on in, have a seat. Teresa’ll make us some coffee, and you can show me what you brought.”

  So much for the grieving process. Poor little Connie Rae, whoever she was. With Teresa hovering in the background, pretending to be busy in the kitchen but listening to every word, I sat on the couch beside Stew so we could go over my schematics together.

  As I unzipped the portfolio, I glanced out at the back garden. The hibiscus were a riot of orange blooms, a color that would harmonize beautifully with the design plan I had in mind. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man in coveralls pushing a loaded wheelbarrow toward the far end of the pool surround. Tony the tile guy back on the job. Since they were so tight, no doubt he knew his good friend Mike Hammerjack was a master forger, with two convictions for grand larceny under his belt.

  I’d almost emptied the portfolio when Mike himself rounded the corner of the house, boxes of tiles cradled in his buff arms. So I guess he’d been honest about one thing—Tony had hired him. Despite his love for snake hunting, Tony was a nice guy then, the type of man who helped out a friend in need.

  “Ah, here we go,” Stew said, pulling me back into the moment as Teresa, in red Capri pants and a flowered jersey top, placed steaming mugs on the coffee table. I guessed she’d probably ditched her shapeless white nylon uniforms for good, and who could blame her? No woman wants to look like she’s wearing a parachute.

  I rested my computer-generated CAD drawings and the color boards on the coffee table. “Shall we start with the overall philosophy?”

  “You’re the boss.” Stew settled back with his coffee.

  “All right.” I picked up the first drawing. “What I see for you is a masculine environment. One with big bones. In fact, you’re already moving in that direction with the Mexican tiles and the wooden shutters you’re planning to install. Those design elements establish a strong tone, and the tone is male. So let’s take advantage of what’s already been decided.” Time for a little sugar. “Besides, a masculine setting is a perfect fit for your personality.”

  He nodded. No argument there.

  “So no small statements. We’ll write large.”

  Stew took a sip of coffee then put down his mug. “I get the masculine drift,” he said, “but I’m not following the rest of it. You’re talking in decorator speak.”

  “Design speak.”

  Stew shrugged. “What’s the dif?”

  I sighed. “They’re mostly the same.” Something I’d never conceded before, but we had a lot to discuss, and you have to pick your battles. A semantic skirmish with Stew was the last thing I wanted.

  “What I see emerging is a desert palette,” I went on. “A warm Arizona sand tone on the walls.” I pointed to a paint swatch on the color board. “Distressed beams overhead. As for furniture, unstructured butter-soft couches and chairs in leather.” I handed him several leather samples to finger for texture. “These are colors that would work.” Now for a little more sugar. “We’ll make the seating large enough so a big guy like you will be comfortable.”

  “Yeah, I like that idea,” Stew said, nodding.

  I sent him a smile. “I was hoping you would. Some hand-loomed textiles for visual warmth and a few area rugs to soften things underfoot.” I gave him several catalog photographs to look over. “I’ve marked the pages with possibilities.”

  He’d listened intently so far, but no point in barraging him with detail on our first run-through. “That’s it for openers. If we nail the basics, we can move on from there to accessories. The room jewelry—lamps, pillows, artwork.”

  “Excellent. I like your plan. Only thing—you didn’t mention the bedroom. The master where Connie Rae...”

  I nodded. “Yes?”

  “I want you to start in there. Today if possible. Change everything. I mean everything. That includes getting rid of all her stuff. Once it’s boxed up, I’ll mail it to Arkansas. Otherwise Teresa and I can’t...otherwise, I’ll never get a good night’s sleep in there again.”

  “I’ll be happy to start in your bedroom, but most people like to begin with the public rooms.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m not most people.” He gulped the rest of his coffee and stood. “I trust your ideas, so do what you want in the bedroom. Just make it look different. Get rid of the pink. No
w if you ladies—” a slight nod to Teresa, “—will excuse me, I have to see what Tony’s up to.”

  Left alone with Teresa, I repacked the portfolio, picked it up and said, “Well, let’s have a look at the master suite, shall we?”

  She stopped her fake task at the sink, dried her hands and led me through the house to Stew’s bedroom. Unlike the day Connie Rae died, this time the draperies over the French doors were parted. In the bright afternoon light, the room was relentlessly pink, its focal point a king-sized bed in French provincial, all white curves and gold edging.

  With the insight of a rocket scientist, I said, “Stew didn’t choose that bed, did he?”

  Teresa chuckled. “No, it was in the house when he bought it. The rest of the things in here were also. Not the clothes, of course. Those were hers.”

  “Hers?” I asked just to make Teresa say the name.

  “That Connie Rae’s.”

  “Oh, I see.” I pointed to the cardboard boxes on top of the satin bedspread. “You’re packing up Connie Rae’s things?”

  “Yes, as I was asked to do,” Teresa replied with a prim sniff.

  As you were dying to do.

  “Well, don’t let me hold you up,” I said, glancing around. “I really can’t make changes in here until it’s cleaned out. Do you think Mr. Hawkins would switch to another bedroom while the renovation’s going on?”

  She held up a skimpy black lace teddy that was more lurid holes than fabric. Three holes in particular. “Look at this. What decent woman would—”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s a disgrace, that’s what I think.”

  “I mean about Stew moving into another bedroom temporarily.” I glanced out the French doors. He was standing in the blazing sun, discussing tile repairs with Tony and Mike.

  “Oh not a problem. He’s already decided to sleep across the hall. I brought his clothes to a guest room this morning.” She folded the black lace teddy and laid it on top of a pile of sweaters.

  “That going to Connie Rae’s mother?” I asked.

  She looked up. “Everything is. Stew’s orders.”

  “Maybe you should leave out the teddy.”

  Teresa shook her head. “No, that wouldn’t be honest. Her mother should know what her daughter was like.”

  “She was a sick girl who died at twenty-two. Her mother must be heartbroken.” I held out a hand. “Let me take care of it.”

  For a minute, I thought she’d refuse, but after hesitating for a moment, she reluctantly plucked the teddy off the pile and slapped it onto my palm. I slipped it into the portfolio and made a mental note to tell Stew I had it. Who knows, maybe he could make good use of it again sometime. Anyway, while Teresa continued packing, I took some measurements, then studied my color chips. I needed a shade that would tie in with the main rooms, be masculine enough to suit Stew yet soft enough to create a relaxing atmosphere. Engrossed in my work, I forgot about Teresa until she came out of the walk-in closet with an armload of shoes and dumped them on the bed. One fell off and rolled under the pink dust ruffle.

  “Oh, for heaven sake,” she muttered, bending over to grope under the ruffle. “Where did that darn thing go?”

  The groping didn’t help, so she dropped to her knees and peered under the bed. That was all it took, one look, and she let out a wild scream—the kind that peels paint off walls—and scuttled backward on all fours. A safe distance from the bed, she leaped to her feet and yelled, “Get out of here. Run for your life.” Little more than a red blur, she disappeared down the hall.

  Her cries must have reached the men outside. Startled, they stood frozen for an instant, then Stew dashed from the pool and sprinted for the great room door.

  Whatever was hidden under the bed hadn’t hurt Teresa, just scared her. As she ran screaming through the house, my curiosity became stronger than my fear—or my common sense—and, heart pounding, I got down on my hands and knees, raised the dust ruffle and peered under the bed.

  A pair of slanted eyes looked straight into mine, a jaw gaped wide and a long tongue flickered out.

  “Argggh!”

  I leaped up, faster than Teresa had, I swear, and raced over to the French doors. I flung them open and yelled at the top of my lungs, “Tony, get in here fast!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tony dropped his trowel, and with Mike hot on his tail, he rushed to the French doors.

  “Under the bed,” I whispered.

  He didn’t need any further instructions. Something in my voice must have told him everything he had to know. He knelt beside the bed, tossed the ruffle out of his way and, peering underneath the mattress, he reached for the snake.

  Slowly, without hurry, he grasped the creature as I stood, horrified, next to the open door, ready to beat a retreat if need be.

  With one hand behind the python’s head and one on its body, he pulled. And pulled and pulled. A cold sweat trickled down my back. Was there no end to the thing?

  Finally, grunting with effort, he said, “Mike, give us a hand here. Take his head.”

  Mike knelt and grabbed the snake’s front end. Flat on his belly now, Tony reached farther in and said, “Okay, I got him good.” Together, they dragged the python out to the center of the room where it writhed in their hands, ready to wrap itself around one of them and squeeze....

  “This your fifteen footer?” Mike asked. “The one that escaped?”

  Tony flashed him a warning glance to shut up. But impervious to hints, Mike glanced over at me, his hands full of snake, and said, “Isn’t this guy something? You don’t see one like this very often. His skin’s worth big bucks. You know how many pairs of shoes he’ll make?”

  Hurried footsteps pounded along the hall. A moment later Stew hovered in the doorway. “Had to calm the housekeeper down. She was half nuts. What’s going...?” He took one look at the python stretching across his bedroom and all color drained from his face. “Where did you find it?”

  “Under your bed,” I told him.

  He pointed to his chest. “Under my...” His eyes widened and if anything he grew more ashen, and then like the day he discovered Connie Rae’s body, he passed out cold, toppling over like an axed redwood right across the struggling python.

  “The snake! Get him off the snake,” Tony yelled. Mike dropped the python’s front end and, grabbing Stew’s feet, yanked him across the carpeting.

  The movement woke Stew, who came to with a shudder. He sat up and aimed a shaky finger at the python writhing in Tony’s grasp. “You telling me I slept with that thing under my bed?”

  “Looks that way,” Mike said cheerfully, picking up the python about a foot down from the head.

  “How long?”

  “When did he escape on you, Tone?” Mike asked.

  “You ought to know,” Tony retorted, disgust clear in his tone. “You let him loose.”

  “I didn’t let him loose. The boys in Jake’s Diner wanted to see him. I just forgot to relock his cage is all.”

  “How long was it out?” Stew asked. “How long?”

  “He got loose two days ago,” Tony said. “Thanks to this bonehead. It never should have happened. You’ve got my apology, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Hmmph,” was all Stew could muster, and from his position on the floor, he watched in silence as Tony and Mike hustled the snake out to a cage in the truck.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon on damage control. Back in the great room, stretched out on the couch with a damp dish towel on her forehead, Teresa let me play nursemaid. Ditto for Stew, collapsed on a club chair. He refused a dish towel but gulped down a double scotch on the rocks.

  Even though Tony vowed the fifteen footer was the only one missing, Stew had him search every room in the house to make certain no other pythons lurked in dark corners. In less than an hour, Tony declared the property snake free, and after all, he ought to know, he was the best snakeman in the business. Too bad he’d let Mike so carelessly manhandle the fifteen foo
ter.

  Once the house was again safe, Stew insisted that Tony and Mike drive “the damn snake off my property.” The two men left for the day with promises to return tomorrow.

  Stew waved them off with a weary hand, and when Tony’s Tiles backed out of the driveway, he said, “I’d tell them to get lost for good, but I want that pool job finished. A couple more days should do it.”

  With my two patients resting comfortably, I felt free to leave as well. Before I could, and as much as I didn’t want to, I had to return to the master bedroom to retrieve my portfolio. My car keys and wallet were in one of the side pockets.

  For all the earlier excitement, the bedroom was now a calm if somewhat gaudy pink retreat, the dust ruffle still tossed over the mattress like a skirt hiked waist high. I flipped it down and made a mental note to dispense with a ruffle on Stew’s redo. His new bed would be platform style with no space underneath where critters could hide. I think Stew would appreciate that. At the very least, it would save him—or Teresa—from checking under the mattress every night before they went to sleep.

  The pile of Connie Rae’s clothes covered the bedspread, ready to be packed into the shipping boxes. Topping the pile was a pretty lilac-flowered notebook, the kind a young girl might scribble in. Connie Rae’s journal? I picked it up and skimmed through a few pages. Had Connie Rae confided all of her secrets to this book, secrets she wouldn’t want her momma to know? For some reason—pity for her untimely end, perhaps—I wanted to protect the girl’s memory and her family from further hurt.

  Not to be hypocritical about it, I was curious too. What had Connie Rae confided to this pretty flowered notebook?

  Nothing much. Disappointed, I glanced through several pages, reading girlish confidences about manicures and haircuts and how she hated her boss, all told in loopy, unformed letters.

  And then, pay dirt. Three weeks ago, right after her impulsive marriage, she wrote,

  Tonight...afterwards...I told Stew all about my <3. He swears he won’t let me die. He said there are doctors in Naples who can treat a bad <3 like mine. Isn’t that wonderful?