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

by Jean Harrington

  I found trucks clogging the driveway of 590. I’d expected to see Tom’s vehicles parked there, but why Tony’s Tiles? I shrugged and, with my stomach in a knot, parked on the street behind a gorgeous Honda Gold Wing.

  Though not a biker, I stepped out of the car and gave the Honda an awestruck once-over. Lustrous and gleaming in the sun, the bike had every bell and whistle possible. It even had a helmet sitting on the seat as if the owner knew no one in the neighborhood would bother to touch it. Still, a motorcycle, no matter how glamorous, seemed out of place on hushed, elegant Whiskey Lane, and I wondered who owned it.

  Inside, the house hummed with activity and looked as if it were peeling; wallpaper, loosened by hand-held steamers, hung in strips everywhere. What a beautiful sight! If the men removed all the paper in the public rooms today, the painting could begin in earnest tomorrow. Encouraged, I asked the same lanky young painter of the day before if he’d seen Tom.

  “Earlier,” he said, zapping a wall with a burst of steam. “He was talking to some lady. They might be out in back.”

  A lady? Kay might have dropped by to check on the job. Dealing with her demands was probably what had Tom so agitated.

  Wrong.

  I found him in the kitchen on his cell phone. Eileen was there too, slumped in the breakfast nook, a cup of green tea sitting unnoticed on the table in front of her.

  “He’s not picking up,” Tom said. “I got his voice mail again.” He closed the phone and stashed it in his pants pocket. “I know the dog had to be walked, but this is an emergency. If we don’t hear from him in five minutes, I’m calling the cops.”

  “What’s going on, Tom?”

  “I wish the hell I knew.” Hell? From Tom-who-never-swore? He glanced over at Eileen. “You tell her,” he said. “I’ve got wallpaper to strip off.” He stomped across the kitchen toward the door. “Boy, you sure got us mixed up in a good one this time, Deva.”

  “Eileen?” I asked.

  “She’s not dead,” Eileen said in a toneless voice.

  “Who’s not dead?”

  “Marilyn Stahlman.”

  “James’s wife? The one who was lost at sea?”

  Eileen, the color of the tea in her forgotten cup, nodded. “She’s come back. Like a ghost.”

  “Where’s Mr. Stahlman?”

  “That’s the problem,” Tom said, pausing in the doorway. “We can’t reach him. He’s out somewhere with that mutt of his.”

  Mutt. Charlotte with her impeccable ancestors would woof at that.

  “Where is this woman? This Mrs. Stahlman?”

  “She said she wanted to take a shower,” Tom said, “and ordered me and the crew out of the house.”

  “Whoever she is, she has no right to do that.”

  “Understood. But just so you’ll know, dealing with long-lost wives isn’t part of my job.”

  Beyond agitated, Tom was positively angry. Having him walk off the project would be a full-blown disaster. So in the interest of damage control—and to satisfy my curiosity—I headed for the master suite and a look at this woman who had come back from the dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I knocked and, without waiting for an invitation, opened the bedroom door. Wrapped in a towel and nothing else, a woman stood in front of a mirror brushing her hair.

  Letting the air whoosh out of my lungs in one big breath, I closed the door and leaned against it for support. “Who are you?” I asked.

  She swung her long, damp hair over her shoulders. “No. I ask the questions. Who are you?”

  “I’m Deva Dunne, James’s interior designer.” I stood up straight. “Now it’s your turn.”

  For a second there, she looked as if she’d refuse to answer, then surprised me. “I’m Marilyn Stahlman. James’s wife.”

  “He’ll be interested to know you’re back...Mrs. Stahlman.”

  She hung on to the brush but let the towel drop to the floor and strutted, butt naked, over to the bed. Though approaching forty, like Kay she had a great body, not an unnecessary curve anywhere and all the necessary ones in perfect position. Wherever she’d been for a year, she obviously had ample opportunity to work out. Radiating health and strength, she was a far cry from a ghost.

  Unfazed at being naked in front of a virtual stranger, she unzipped a leather backpack and pulled out a pair of black jeans and a black T-shirt.

  No underwear? I smiled, thinking of what Nana Kennedy would say about that.

  “Where’s Jimmy, anyway?” she asked, as she slid into the jeans. “I thought he might be at home when I arrived. It’s not like he has to go to work or anything.”

  “I don’t think he was expecting you, or I’m sure he’d be here,” I said, wondering if she’d see the humor in my reply.

  From the quick flash of her blue eyes, I think she did. She gave her hair a final brush—it was drying to a deep honey blond—and sans bra, sans panties, sans makeup, sans embellishment of any kind, she looked ravishing. Jimmy...I mean James...sure had polished taste in women. But whether or not he’d be happy to see Marilyn was anybody’s guess. After all, with her reemergence he risked losing both Kay and the fortune he’d inherited from a supposedly dead wife. As for me, Marilyn’s reappearance meant I risked losing an important client—no need now to rush getting the house ready for a wedding.

  But there I went again, letting what I didn’t know race ahead of what I did—until a moment later, when she flung down her brush and proved that sometimes suppositions were right on target.

  “Well now, Deva, whoever you are,” she said, “I want you to get the hell out of my bedroom and out of my house.”

  “Oh, really?” I squared my shoulders and raised my chin, Dorchester style. It had worked with bullies in grammar school, so why not here? “I happen to be in Mr. Stahlman’s employ, and until your identity is confirmed, I have no intention of leaving.”

  Sheer bravado. Eileen had already identified her, and having been with the family for years, Eileen would know. Furthermore, weird as the woman’s sudden reappearance might be, my gut told me she really was the long-lost Mrs. Stahlman. All we needed was James’s confirmation. He had been gone quite a while now. How long did it take a little thing like Charlotte to pee, anyway?

  That question never got answered. Someone knocked on the door, and hoping it was the master of the house, I yanked it open.

  Bingo! James Stahlman stood there with Charlotte in his arms. Staring past me, he gazed straight across the room at Marilyn, utter disbelief sagging his jaw to his chest.

  “You,” he said, and nothing else. His face the color of putty, he looked as if he could use a chair or a few fingers of cognac. Probably both.

  Charlotte squirmed in his embrace. His arms must have gone limp, for he dropped her suddenly—dumped her really. She landed paws down, appeared dazed for a second, then, tail waggling, she scampered over to Marilyn, who promptly picked her up and kissed her. Which was a lot more than she’d done for James.

  His arms free of dog, James clung to the open door jamb. From the pale look of him, he’d be dropping to the floor next.

  Marilyn glanced across at him, her face devoid of sympathy. “You’re shocked. I guess I can’t blame you.”

  He passed a hand over his eyes, as if trying to clear his vision. “Where have you been all this time?”

  She shrugged. “Did you miss me?” When he didn’t answer, she patted Charlotte and murmured in her ear, “I know you did.”

  “I asked where you’ve been? I thought you had drowned. The whole world thought you had drowned.”

  She placed Charlotte on the floor, rather carefully, and strode closer to her husband, though staying well out of arm range.

  “What does it matter where I’ve been? That isn’t important. Our marriage was over long before I left. And if you’re wondering why I came back, blame the media. I read about your engagement.” She laughed. “To Kay Hawkins of all people.”

  “Where have you been?”

 
“Hiding in plain sight.”

  He hadn’t let go of the door frame, not for an instant, and he clung to it still, her non-answers plainly adding to his shock. “Why these months of hell? Why didn’t you just divorce me?”

  A strange, dreamlike expression floated across Marilyn’s face, and she hesitated before answering. “That night when I swam from the yacht, I never intended to stay away, not in the beginning. It just...happened. The farther I went, the less and less I wanted to return—to you, to this house, to the life I was bored sick of. Without realizing it at first, I think I intended to die that night.”

  “Good God.”

  “Yes.” She raised her arms then let them fall, like broken wings, to her sides. “But as you can see, I didn’t.”

  “What happened? We were several miles out. You’re a strong swimmer but—”

  “I was rescued. Whether against my will or not, I still can’t say. He was fishing for tarpon and caught me instead. I’m going to marry him. And since I have a reason to live after all, I’ll need my money.”

  James bowed from the waist. “Of course, my dear.”

  Grace under pressure. I’d never seen such a display of consummate good manners and was totally impressed, if somewhat confused. Never mind clinging to the door jamb, any other man would have had Marilyn by the throat demanding answers. How could he manage to be so calm, so courtly, in the face of such a profound insult?

  A timid cough. James swiveled around. “Yes, Eileen.”

  “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m leaving for the grocery store, and there’s a gentleman here to see you and Mrs. Stahlman. He’s waiting in the kitchen.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A Lieutenant Rossi of the Naples police.”

  “Please tell him we’ll be right with him.”

  “Very good, sir,” Eileen said and took her leave.

  “Oh, heavens.” Marilyn heaved a long sigh. “I suppose the inquisition is about to begin. Can’t I just be left alone?”

  Nope. Get ready, honey. The police, the Coast Guard and your investment bankers will all want to chat it up with you.

  James swept a hand to one side and, ever the gallant, said, “After you, ladies.”

  What I wished he’d do, instead, was show some emotion. Yell, swear, punch a hole in the wall, cry, seize Marilyn in his arms and kiss her passionately. Act as if he were over the moon with happiness or ready to kill her with his bare bands. But no, flat as a table top, displaying no emotional highs or lows, he followed us from the master suite into the living room past Tom’s crew who were ankle deep in damp wallpaper, and out to the kitchen.

  As we walked in, single file, Rossi didn’t seem surprised to see me. He’d probably spotted the loaner sitting out by the curb. All professional and noncommittal, he flashed his badge at the Stahlmans and gave me a brief nod.

  “I’m Lieutenant Victor Rossi of the Naples Police Department,” he said to James. “I’ve already met Mrs. Dunne, but you are?”

  “James Stahlman.” He gestured at Marilyn. “This is my wife, the reason you’ve been called here, I presume.”

  “That is my understanding.”

  “Please forgive the appearance of my home, Lieutenant. But I’m undergoing—”

  Rossi held up a finger. Just one. “No need to explain. I’m well acquainted with Mrs. Dunne’s work.”

  I’ll say.

  “I don’t believe her testimony will be required,” Rossi went on. “So if you wish, Mrs. Dunne, you may be excused.”

  Excused? Darn it. Rossi should know I wanted to hear every word. I shot him a quick, appalled glance. He knew, all right. He was smiling, the fox. We’d have to discuss this tonight—before bed.

  But James came through for me. “I prefer that Deva stay. For the past year, in the court of public opinion, I’ve been tried and convicted of murder. I’m happy to have people know I never harmed my wife.”

  Ah, a show of bitterness. Not the jolliest of emotions, but proof that James had some steel in his spine. I treated Rossi to a triumphant grin, and we all sat cozy as four old friends in the breakfast nook.

  While Eileen served coffee, and Rossi readied his tape recorder for Marilyn’s testimony, I glanced out the kitchen windows. A slight breeze riffled the palm trees, a relief, no doubt, to Tony and Mike, who were on their knees replacing the stones on the slippery set of terrace stairs. A good move on James’s part.

  “I think we’re ready,” Rossi said, pulling my attention back inside.

  Leaving out how bored she’d been with her marriage, but leaving in her death wish, Marilyn retold the tale of her disappearance, right down to the name of her rescuer. Showing little remorse for her husband’s suffering, she was deeply concerned that her lover be spared any blame. When she finished, Rossi turned off the tape recorder.

  “Disappearing is not a crime, per se, as long as no actual harm was done. Faking one’s own death is another matter. However, if that wasn’t your original intent, the circumstances may be considered somewhat extenuating. I can’t guarantee that will be the finding, but from what you’ve told me, there’s at least a chance this might be deemed a private matter between husband and wife.”

  “Oh good,” Marilyn said.

  “With one caveat.” Rossi continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “The element of deception in your disappearance. My guess is that the Collier County taxpayers will have to be reimbursed for man hours spent investigating the case. And almost certainly the Coast Guard will expect compensation for its search at sea. If these charges are met, that may be the end of the matter. Again, no guarantees, of course. While the resolution of the case is underway, you may want to contact your lawyer. In fact, I recommend you do so.”

  Finished with his interview, he stood, pocketed the recorder and shook James’s hand. He didn’t take Marilyn’s or nod farewell in her direction. Though what Rossi was thinking was always hard to psych out, this time I guessed he’d made a value judgment. He didn’t quite care for a wife who, for an entire year, let her husband believe she was dead when the whole time she was alive and well. Not only that, she’d let him be ripped to shreds in the media.

  Whatever he thought, without another word he turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen. Marilyn cleared her throat, reached into her jeans pocket and withdrew a small slip of paper. “Here’s my lawyer’s number. And one where I can be reached.” Careful not to touch James’s hand, she placed it in front of him and stood. “I’ll get my gear out of the bedroom and be off.”

  “Do you need a ride?” he asked.

  My God, the man was unbelievable.

  “No, thanks, my bike’s outside.” Halfway to the door, she swiveled around. “Any objection if I drop by mornings and use the pool?”

  “Certainly not. I built it for you. Kay might object though.”

  She laughed and gave her hair a toss. “Not a problem. I can handle Kay.”

  James smiled, faintly, but still the edges of his lips did turn up. “You’re well matched.”

  Ah, a flash of insight for James and for me. In that moment, we both understood that he liked tall, statuesque women with wills of iron.

  Poor Jimmy.

  Chapter Thirty

  By noon, every scrap of wallpaper had been stripped off the public rooms of 590, which was a good thing. Condensation had been dripping down the inside of the windows all morning, and in the heat and humidity, even James’s putty-colored face took on a pink glow. Truth be told, southwest Florida in July wasn’t the best time to have an air-conditioning system fight a small army of hand-held steamers.

  Tom’s crew swept up the debris then left for lunch break. A couple of the men settled outside on the top terrace step to eat their sandwiches and swap tales with Mike and Tony. A quick peek out the living room sliders showed Mike doing most of the talking and Tony looking bored as if he’d heard it all before.

  After the soggy paper had been stuffed into plastic utility bags and the floors swept clean, Tom and I tou
red the rooms. Rid of its dated wall coverings and ho-hum chairs, the bare, stripped interior reminded me once again of the reasons why I loved my work—transforming drab houses into beautiful ones and, not incidentally, making the people who lived in them happy. Or happier. I heaved a sigh. After what transpired here today, I wondered if this would ever again be a happy household.

  “The walls are in better shape than I thought,” Tom said, running a hand along the plaster. “I’ll have the boys finish prepping this afternoon, and we’ll start painting in the morning. It’ll take three coats, but even so, we should finish up early next week.” He glanced over his shoulder, and seeing we were alone, whispered, “That blonde. Is she the wife who disappeared?”

  I nodded.

  He let out a whistle. “It’ll take more than three coats of paint to fix that mess.”

  “What mess?”

  We both whirled around, as startled as if James had caught us doing something wrong. Well, in a way, he had. We were gossiping, pure and simple. Not a good thing ever, but especially bad at a time like this.

  To cover my embarrassment—and my guilt—I quickly replied, “Tom was saying that when he’s through here, he has another challenging job waiting for him.”

  James nodded, not bothering to ask anything about his own house, a subject that just a few hours ago had consumed him. As if he were a pricked balloon, all the air had whooshed out of his bubble, and I was sorry for his distress.

  “I should get back to the shop,” I said.

  James peeked at his watch. “Please don’t go, Deva. Kay’s due home for lunch any minute now, and I’d love to have you join us. If you can...” His voice trailed off.

  He hadn’t said so, but I sensed that he needed me as a buffer, or for moral support...or perhaps to keep Kay’s anger in check when he broke the news of Marilyn’s return.

  At the pleading in his brown puppy eyes, I didn’t have the heart to refuse. So, tough as two cream puffs, we waited for the Iron Lady in the kitchen, the one comfortable room left in the torn-up house.