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

by Jean Harrington

  Yes, indeed. I snapped the notebook shut and dropped it in the portfolio. This wasn’t a crime scene, so technically I wasn’t tampering with evidence, though technically...actually...I was stealing someone else’s property.

  I fully intended to return the notebook, but only after Rossi had a chance to read it.

  Stew had pretended to know nothing about Connie Rae’s heart condition, and yet he had known. Why had he lied, not only to me, but to the police? Clearly he was trying to hide something.

  Chapter Seventeen

  With the teddy and the lilac notebook tucked in my portfolio like contraband goods, I left Chez Hawkins for home but didn’t get far.

  No sooner had I tossed the portfolio in the Audi’s back seat than a voice called, “Deva Dunne! I want to see you.”

  I turned from the car and glanced over a shoulder.

  James Stahlman stood on his front lawn holding Charlotte’s leash in one hand and a wineglass in the other. “Don’t drive off,” he warned. “We need to talk.”

  Maybe he did, but what I needed was to get home to Surfside and cook a simple dinner for two.

  Reminding myself that James was a valued client, I pasted a big glad-to-see-you smile on my face, closed the Audi door and strolled across Whiskey Lane. For I suspected James wouldn’t cross the road to Stew’s property if his life depended on it.

  “How are you?” I asked, stooping to pat Charlotte’s topknot. She must have visited the groomer since I last saw her. Today she sported a kelly-green bow.

  “We’re fine if somewhat offended,” James replied.

  “Oh?” I asked as if I didn’t know why.

  “I have to say I’m disappointed, Deva.” In true James fashion, he left off the accusatory “in you.”

  “Why?” This wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Your car has been parked in Hawkins’s drive the entire afternoon and not once did you call or ring my bell. And if I’m not mistaken, I secured your services before Hawkins did.”

  He drew himself upright and, ignoring Charlotte’s tug on the leash, took a sip of his wine.

  “A cabernet?” I asked, tilting my chin at his glass.

  “Yes, a 1997. A good year for reds. But let’s not change the subject. I can’t linger, much as I’d like to. Charlotte and I are on our evening cocktail dog walk, and she’s eager to meet her friends.”

  “What’s a cocktail dog walk?” I asked, really wanting to know

  “Exactly what the name implies,” James replied coolly, as if miffed that I should have to ask. “It’s an evening ritual Charlotte wouldn’t miss for the world. Would you, sweetheart?”

  Woof!

  A few doors down the lane, a schnauzer strained on a leash. An elderly woman with a glass in her hand struggled to restrain him.

  “There’s Max,” James said to Charlotte. Judging from her taut leash, I figured she already knew.

  “Do join us for a bit, Deva. As you can see, Charlotte can’t wait any longer.”

  The schnauzer, his hind leg raised, was anointing a banyan trunk while his mistress sipped something clear and icy from a tall glass.

  “I don’t wish to sound petulant,” James said as we approached the pair, “but why have you seen fit to work with Hawkins and let my project languish?”

  “I’ve done no such thing,” I said, striving for a tone somewhere between indignation and conciliation. “We’ve already decided on classic white for your major color, and I’ve made several selections for your accent pieces and fabrics. Once you let me know when you want the painters to begin, I’ll contact Tom Kruse at Oceanside Finishes.”

  Having completed his business, the schnauzer lowered his leg and sniffed around the base of the banyan for a few moments. Then apparently finding Charlotte more alluring than whatever he’d been sniffing, he bounded toward us. His sudden lurch caught his mistress off guard, and some of her drink sloshed onto the sidewalk. Max sniffed that too, but not for as long as the banyan trunk. Well, some odors are more fascinating than others.

  Returning my attention to James, I said, “You do understand that your rooms will be in disarray for a while. We’ll have to remove the window treatments, send your seating to the upholsterer, and painters’ drop cloths will be everywhere. Though I realize the surprise is over, I thought you still preferred to wait until you and Kay left on your honeymoon.”

  A shadow of annoyance crossed James’s face. “I prefer the expression ‘wedding trip.’”

  Charlotte preferred to hurry, and after exchanging lip licks with schnauzer Max, the instant she caught sight of a chocolate lab, she tugged on her leash

  “Oh, there’s Moose,” James told her as if she didn’t know. Moose’s owner, a portly man in a white shirt and tie and the bottom half of a business suit, held a drink that looked dark enough to be medicinal.

  Charlotte barked out a hello and Moose woofed back. An adorable Lhasa Apso who had the same beauty-queen potential as Charlotte scampered down a driveway with a striking blonde—a white wine girl—racing to keep up.

  “There’s Stella,” James told Charlotte. No need, her tail wagged like a metronome.

  I placed a hand on James’s arm. “Could we stop for a moment? Without a dog on a leash, I feel terribly underdressed for this party.”

  He frowned and pointed to Charlotte’s tail. “A moment only...”

  “I know. When are you planning to leave on your...ah...wedding trip, so I can tell the contractor to begin?”

  “We’re not leaving. At least not before the house is refurbished.”

  “No?”

  “No. Kay wants to be here to supervise the renovation.”

  Oh, really?

  Charlotte’s tail wagged overtime, but screw it, this was serious. It was design over dog. “Kay’s input will be welcome, of course. But let’s make one thing clear before we begin. The success of the project depends on me. That makes me the decider. And the decider is the supervisor. Also, not to be crass but practical, one half of the estimated costs are payable before we begin.”

  Moose, Stella and Max were bearing down on us fast. Giddy with excitement, Charlotte did so much yipping and sniffing and leaping up and down that James had difficulty keeping his cabernet from spilling. My day had me so frazzled, I wanted to yank the glass out of his hand and drain it, but instead I quietly waited to be fired.

  James surprised me. He smiled. “I like your spirit, Deva. Rest assured, as soon as I receive your proposal, a check will be in the mail. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must find out how Moose fared at his chiropractor’s.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me?”

  James’s eyes widened. “Certainly not. Moose suffers from a bad back. The chiropractor has done wonders for him.”

  Speechless, shaking my head, I turned and headed back to the Audi. Wait till Rossi heard about the cocktail dog walk. No question he’d believe every word. You just couldn’t make up stuff like this.

  I also wondered what he’d think of Connie Rae’s journal.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I drove onto the Surfside parking lot, my condo lights gleamed through the front window.

  Rossi’s home.

  It had been quite a day, and I looked forward to a quiet evening. Maybe we could have dinner in the living room in front of the TV. Kick off our shoes, share a bottle of wine.

  I hurried inside and dropped the portfolio on a chair. “Rossi, I’m home!”

  “So am I,” he said, striding out of the kitchen.

  I ran to him, and holding out his arms, he enfolded me in one of those embraces that I lived for—never tiring of them, never getting too many of them, never wanting them to end.

  He kissed me as if he had invented how, starting slow and soft, his lips velvet against mine, then hardening, and teasing until I opened to him, a mini opening, an opening that promised more, much more.

  My neediness must have shown, for he held me at arm’s length for a moment and smiled into my eyes. “That was qu
ite a welcome. Too bad I can’t stay and make the most of it.”

  “Oh no. Not again tonight.”

  “Afraid so.” He stroked my bare arms, his fingers telling me what he wouldn’t say—he didn’t want to leave. “There was a pile-up on I-75 this afternoon, and we’re trying to sort out who’s responsible. One of the victims is in surgery. If he’s alert enough later, I need to question him.” He planted a kiss on my forehead and let me go. “So I’m off to the hospital. Can’t be helped.”

  “I know.” I also knew this was what a detective’s life entailed, and I was struggling with the reality of it—the danger, the uncertainty, the times when emergencies came first.

  But I pasted on a smile and tried not to show my disappointment.

  “I called earlier,” Rossi said, “but when you didn’t answer, I figured you were having a busy day. So I bought a pick-up meal at Publix Market. Barbequed chicken and a Greek salad. I just stopped by to drop them off.”

  “That’s wonderful, Rossi. Thank you. It has been a long day.”

  “And I left something for you to read. It’s in that envelope on the desk. Why don’t you take a look at it?”

  “I will,” I said. “Sounds important.”

  With a quick, two-fingered salute of farewell, he was gone.

  Curious, I strolled over to the desk and, with a little sigh, picked up the envelope. I’d be the one doing the reading tonight, not Rossi.

  I sat on the sofa, slid a finger under the envelope flap and lifted out what looked like an official document. It was the deed to the Calista Sands house lot, and it listed me as the paid-in-full owner.

  Clipped to the deed, a note in Rossi’s big bold scrawl read,

  Let’s get started, Deva. You’ve always praised Harlan Conway as a gifted architect. Why not contact him ASAP and have him draw up a set of plans?

  He’d signed the note simply R. Actually it wasn’t a note. It was a love letter, Rossi style. He wanted me to have the house of my dreams and was doing everything in his power to make that happen. Even to suggesting Harlan Conway. Though I’d disliked Harlan’s indifferent treatment of a former client of mine who had been madly in love with him, as a Florida architect he had no peer. Rossi was right. Together Harlan and I could design a house that would fit the site perfectly and incorporate all my favorite features and Rossi’s too.

  I leaned back against the cushions and just for fun dreamed of living in a postmodern shotgun-style house, its sleekness softened with Old Florida motifs. Beadboard ceilings and floors built from salvaged hardwood. Vintage tiles in the baths and a Viking stove in the kitchen. A deck on stilts overlooking the water with a screened-in porch behind it for when night fell and the mosquitoes buzzed...

  Or maybe something totally different. A pillared, neo-Classical folly, say, small in scope but exquisite in detail. No, too formal. Rossi wouldn’t care for that approach, and he had to be happy too. Well, we could always...

  Whoa. I’d gotten way ahead of myself. First we’d show Harlan the site and let him make suggestions. Besides, though contemplating the future might be exciting, I had to be practical too. Building costs were high, especially for custom work, so as soon as Rossi and I both approved a design, I’d put the condo on the market. Maybe Lee and Paulo would get their financing soon and be able to buy it. I hoped so. I knew they’d love it. And then I’d move in with Rossi in Countryside until the new house was ready, and after that...

  I breathed a sigh of pure contentment and tucked the deed back in the envelope. My fantasies were wonderful, even doable, but to help make them come true, I had work to perform, clients to keep happy, and a business to run. Rossi had set our plans in motion, but building our new home was a team effort, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  That meant I’d soon be moving from Surfside. I glanced around my familiar living room. For the first time since I’d lived here, it seemed cramped to me, its muted greens and turquoise a tad dated. I had to smile at my own dissatisfaction, for to be honest, ever since I’d sold my late husband Jack’s Irish antiques, I hadn’t really been happy with the changed look of the place. Not with the colors, or the consignment store secretarial, or the nubby club chairs... Designer, heal thyself.

  The portfolio with the journal inside still lay on the chair where I tossed it.

  Too bad I hadn’t had a chance to show it to Rossi. Though on second thought, maybe that was just as well. He’d been working twelve hours most days, sometimes even longer, and I didn’t want to burden him with yet another problem. After all, no crime had been committed. Stew had lied was all...lied about Connie Rae’s life-threatening illness. At least I think that was all.

  Anyway, according to what I read in the journal, somebody had lied. Why would a girl claim her husband knew she was in danger of dying if he didn’t know? And if Stew was aware of his wife’s desperate situation, why would he deny the knowing? None of it made sense. To get at the truth in Connie Rae’s journal, I needed Naomi Pierce, a handwriting expert and woman of many talents. Providing I could find her.

  I had to. An urgent need to learn more about the dead girl crowded out all other thoughts. Acting on a hunch, I stowed the deed safely in a desk drawer, retrieved my cell phone from the orange tote and carried it out to the kitchen counter.

  I perched on a stool, clicked on the Google icon and tapped in Handwriting Analysis. A menu of several names from around the country popped up, but no Naomi Pierce from Naples. Not under America’s Handwriting Expert or Forensic Document Examiner, either. Before switching to Graphology, I’d try Signature Expert—Forged wills, contracts, forms. And there she was, with both an email address and a local phone number.

  Though psyching out human behavior from how a person wielded a pen wasn’t exactly a skill in high demand, on occasion the NPD had used Naomi to help crack a case. She excelled at ferreting out hidden motivation. And that was what I was after. Motivation.

  I’d try the phone number first. It would be faster. But I was out of luck. A robo voice came on the line: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” The email address then. No luck there, either. An instant after I sent a message, it was bounced back to me. Now what?

  Naomi was a free spirit who moved from one rental apartment and trailer park to another. I’d never known exactly where she lived at any one time, and in the past year or so, I’d lost track of her completely.

  The duty officer at the station might have her new number. But even so, he wouldn’t give it to a stranger on the phone. If all else failed, I’d ask Rossi to track her down, but he was already so overworked I hated to add to his schedule.

  I glanced at my watch. Nearly eight o’clock. He’d been on the job since dawn. I wondered if he’d had any dinner and hopped off the stool to check the fridge. Nope. The barbequed chicken hadn’t been touched nor the Greek salad either. He’d probably feasted on a cup of stale coffee and a bag of peanuts. What he needed now was a meal and a good night’s sleep, not another task.

  That settled it. I had to find Naomi on my own. Naples was her home. She’d been born and raised here, and chances were good that she still lived in town. I could go to the Collier County tax assessor’s office, or drop in at a local bistro she used to frequent...

  Or...

  Or! Wanting to slap myself up the forehead for not remembering sooner, I forgot about the chicken and the greens and scrolled through the cell again. Naomi used to do calligraphy at an art shop, the fancy kind of penmanship people used on bar mitzvah, bridal shower and wedding invitations. She once said she made more money from calligraphy than from analyzing people’s handwriting. How much more was a good question. Naomi pretty much lived on the edge.

  At the Art Shops listing, I ran a finger along the search results. What was the name of the last place she’d worked at? No...no...no...then there it was.

  You’ve Been Framed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The accident victim had died on the operating table before he could be questi
oned. In light of that, Rossi rose early the next morning tense and troubled and not in the mood for conversation. Seeing him so worried, I was doubly glad I hadn’t added to his problems.

  After he left for the station, I dressed more or less effectively in a short tomato-red skirt and a taupe cropped top that matched my cork-heeled slides. The emotional cloud that had darkened the day’s opening dissolved as I drove to work under a glorious blue sky. What a stunning ceiling that sky blue would make in our new home, especially in the bedrooms.

  But there I went again, getting ahead of the game. I eased my foot on the gas pedal and rolled down the windows, continuing on to Fern Alley with the scents of gardenia and jasmine floating all around me.

  According to its website, You’ve Been Framed didn’t open until ten, an hour from now. I used the time to leave a call-back message for Tom Kruse at Oceanside Finishes and made an urn of coffee that along with cookies we offered to drop-in customers. After Lee arrived, I helped her rearrange the display tables, and then at ten on the dot, my heart pulsing a bit overtime—would Naomi still be there?—I punched in the art shop’s number.

  “You’re in luck. She’s here today,” owner Jane Walsh said. Her voice trailed off. “I don’t see her right now. Guess she stepped outside for a smoke. You want me to get her for you?”

  “No, that isn’t necessary. Would you just tell her Deva Dunne called? I’m coming right over. Please ask her not to leave until I get there.”

  “Sure thing. Will do.”

  I hung up and reached into the desk drawer where I’d stashed my bag and the journal.

  Busy with our first drop-in of the day, Lee was chatting about the merits of silk pillows over polyester. When I mimed that I had to leave, she nodded and went on talking.

  I flung my bag over a shoulder, opened the center desk drawer and took out the two letters Mike Hammerjack had sent from Florida State Prison. If Naomi could shed some light on the journal’s mystery, why not on mystery man Mike? I already knew he’d been convicted for forgery, but what else might his handwriting reveal?