Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

by Jean Harrington

  “Certainly.” Mr. Miller turned a Grover Cleveland over in his hands, handling it carefully, almost tenderly. “In all my years in the banking business, I’ve never seen one of these.”

  “No kidding,” Chip said. “I just found them. All of them. They’ve been hidden away.”

  His eyes full of Grover, the manager nodded. “They’re so rare, they’re collectors’ items. Worth more than the face value.”

  “Wow!” Chip said.

  “Depending on condition, of course. But if they’re all as clean as this one, they could be worth several thousand each.”

  “Holy Toledo.” Chip turned to AudreyAnn sitting beside him. “Did you hear that, honey? We’re rich.”

  She flashed a triumphant, I-just-won-the-lottery smile around the table, though it dimmed a little when he added. “We’ll be able to help Tomas’s widow. She’s got to be hurting real bad. She and Tomas were crazy in love.”

  “I believe this is legal tender, but let me test it,” Mr. Miller said and hurried out with one of the bills.

  “You need an attorney, Chip,” Rossi said. “Do you have one?”

  Chip looked at me and we both nodded. Simon.

  “Simon Yaeger,” Chip replied. “He used to live at Surfside. He’s a tax man.”

  “Excellent choice. I know Mr. Yaeger.” Rossi pulled out his phone to hunt for Simon’s number.

  “It’s 555-8871,” I told him.

  “Instant recall?” Rossi frowned a little though he had no reason to.

  Simon had lived at Surfside for a while before purchasing a penthouse on Gulf Shore Boulevard North in the brand new Peninsula Building. Originally a sales model staged by a New York designer, his new condo was a gorgeous bachelor pad for a gorgeous, successful...divorced...available Simon. He was a nice guy, too, a very nice guy. We’d dated a few times, but in comparison to Rossi he was just a well-dressed suit.

  Rossi handed me his phone. “Yaeger’s number’s ringing. I think you’ll have the best shot at getting him here ASAP.”

  True, apparently. In a matter of minutes, from his office in nearby Northern Trust Towers, Simon strode into the conference room dressed impeccably as always. Today he wore an ivory silk shirt, hand-tailored slacks and custom-made loafers.

  Rossi, on the other hand, lit up the room in a purple hibiscus number. That was fine with me. The conference room needed a jolt of color.

  When Simon spotted Rossi, his face fell a bit, but ever the professional, he rallied and shook hands all around, secretly stroking my palm when he took my hand. Or maybe not so secretly, judging by Rossi’s scowl.

  Rossi cleared his throat. “Chip has a story for you.”

  Chip had just about finished telling Simon his tale when the bank manager returned with Grover. “This is the real deal. Shall we test them all?”

  *

  Rossi and I left Chip and AudreyAnn at the SunTrust Bank with Simon and Mr. Miller. The money—all authentic—would be stored in a safety deposit box, the police notified and a search for a possible legal owner begun. After a month of running ads in the nation’s largest newspapers and our local Naples Daily News, if no one surfaced with proof of ownership, the money would belong to Chip, free and clear.

  Except for one tiny detail. Francesco. Chances were he wouldn’t give up that much cash without a fight.

  “Let him try. We’ll be ready for him,” Simon vowed with a wry lift to his lips. “Though the best way to preserve the find is to avoid litigation. But that’s a problem for another day. For now, let’s take care of the initial legalities.”

  As Rossi and I were leaving, Simon took my hand again, sandwiching it between his own. For some silly female reason I was glad I had worn the snug-fitting sheath in coffee linen and the Paloma Picasso pendant he’d given me last Christmas. And I was glad my Technicolor bruises had subsided.

  “Thank you for helping with this,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” Simon replied, gazing deep into my eyes. “Always at your service, Deva. Always.”

  Rossi cleared his throat, and I slipped my fingers free. “I’ll take you to pick up your car,” he said. I doubted that this time the gravel in his voice was due to smoke inhalation.

  When we reached the restaurant parking lot, we lingered in the old Mustang he used on the job—its dust and scrapes a strategy to fool suspects into believing he was a bumbling, inept operator. Nothing could be further from the truth. Rossi’s mind was a sword that could pierce metal. His hooded eyes alone gave him away, and he turned them on me now, full force.

  “Your eyebrows are growing back,” I said

  “And your bruises are mainly gone. Only a little lavender under one eye.” He fingered the spot ever so gently.

  I caught his hand in mine and held onto it. “We’re healing.”

  His face sober, he barely nodded. “Can you stay here for a few minutes?”

  To try and lighten his mood, I faked a grin. “You want to make out?”

  No smiles, just a hesitation, then, “I mean what I said yesterday. You’ll make a great mother some day.”

  “Thank you.” But when that day would be I hadn’t a clue. The possibility seemed so remote, so magical, I couldn’t believe it would ever happen.

  “I also meant what I said about the Grandese job. I don’t want you to take it.”

  “Why not?” I asked, really wanting to know. “Arson didn’t cause the explosion. You said so your—”

  “I said it appeared to be an accident. Appeared being the operative word. The arson squad couldn’t prove foul play, but questions remain.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Donny’s unsavory reputation for one. Grandese’s business dealings for another. He’s a wheeler-dealer apparently. Has real estate holdings here, in Miami and in New England. His affairs are a tangled web. It’s hard to believe Chip was targeted, but supposing Grandese was? If so, he’s in danger. And that places everyone involved with him in jeopardy too. For your own safety, the less you have to do with him the better.”

  In his own Rossi way, he was pleading a case. He cared for me and didn’t want me harmed. Though the realization was heartwarming, I couldn’t give up the Grandese job so easily. Too much was riding on it.

  “So far, arson hasn’t been proven, and Francesco has done nothing illegal. Right?”

  Reluctantly Rossi nodded.

  “So what happened to you’re innocent until proven guilty?”

  “I’m concerned about your safety, not some point of law. What if Donny deliberately tossed that cigarette?”

  “You don’t know that he did.”

  “Nor that he did not. The reason he gave for parking by the kitchen door was flimsy at best. And why was he out of range when the explosion occurred?”

  “I want to do what you ask, but this time I simply can’t. The business needs a cash infusion. You know that. With any luck at all, my work on the Grandese house will get my name into the upscale community. There’s no telling what the ripple effect will be. A design business grows on word of mouth. Besides—”

  He stopped my tirade with a kiss. One of his best ever. A long, lingering kiss. A kiss to drown in, to sink into and not care if you ever breathe again. It lasted forever, and when it did, finally, end, Rossi held me at arm’s length and gazed at me with those eyes that turned me to mush. To avoid the plea in them, I looked over his shoulder at the temporary plywood wall as if it were an architectural wonder. No question, he had my welfare in mind, but I couldn’t give in on this. Not with success so tantalizingly close.

  “Well?”

  I shook my head. “You’re asking me to swim in the shallow end of the pool.”

  He put a finger under my chin and tilted my face toward him. “No, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking you to take care. I want you safe.”

  I forgot the plywood. Gazing straight into his craggy face, I raised a hand to stroke his cheek, feeling its stubble, feeling its strength. “I want you safe too. You live in
harm’s way every day. But I’m not asking you to give up your work for me.”

  His turn to look away, to stare at the jury-rigged wall. “My work’s my life, though it’ll never make me as wealthy as Simon Yaeger. So if that’s a problem, tell me. Just don’t play games.”

  He was jealous, an insight that made me happy and sad at the same time. “I do want to play games with you, Rossi. But not head games.”

  I grinned, trying to coax a smile out of him. No luck.

  As always, at the worst moment, a cell phone chirped. Mine this time. I fished it out of my bag and glanced at caller ID. It was the painting contractor. “I’d better get this,” I said. “Tom Kruse is calling.”

  Rossi’s jaw dropped. “Who?”

  He looked so comical I had to laugh. “Not to worry. You’re sexier than any movie star on earth.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rossi promised to come by with a pizza after work when we’d have a chance to talk at leisure. Armed with that and another long, lingering kiss, I zoomed over to Rum Row only five miles above the limit. Twenty minutes later, I was touring the Grandese house with a shell-shocked Tom Kruse. A trim, sixties-something who took his work seriously, Tom ran Oceanside Finishes, the best painting firm in town. When he wasn’t swinging a brush, like today, he dressed as if he were a surgeon, in a white doctor’s coat over chinos and button-downs.

  As we strolled into the lilac kitchen, he whistled through his front teeth. “Looks like somebody unleashed a paint store in here.” He rested a clipboard on the kitchen’s purple island. “So what do you have in mind?”

  “A clean sweep. The kitchen will be gutted and rebuilt, so leave this for last. Same for the baths. What I’m after in the public rooms is cohesion. A monochromatic look, at least for now.”

  “Base white on the walls, then?”

  “Yes, and a flat classic white on all the ceilings.”

  “What about those magenta beams in the living room?”

  The arched living room ceiling rose to fourteen feet in the center with exposed beams spanning the space.

  “The classic white in semi-gloss on all trim and paneling, including those beams. The floor plan is open, so color flow is important. Once we get the walls sanded and primed, we can go from there.”

  Tom jotted a few notes. “They may need three coats.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Within twenty minutes, he’d measured all the rooms, promised to fax me a bid that same afternoon, and took off to crunch the numbers. Once his proposal was approved, he would send a crew in immediately.

  After Tom left, I toured the house once more, admiring its potential, its grace, its proportions.

  I made some notes. For starters all the closets could use organizers. The overdone window treatments with their heavy cornices had to go, the floor tiles in the foyer replaced, probably with marble squares. On the plus side, the hardwood floors were in good shape, only needing to be cleaned and polished.

  Until I saw Francesco’s furnishings and learned his color preferences, I could do little more today. I’d wandered back to the kitchen, where I’d left my purse, when the doorbell rang, the chimes low and melodious.

  At the front entrance I peeked through the sidelights. Holding a covered plate in both hands, a fifty-something woman with the posture of an on-duty sentry stood outside on the slate landing,

  I opened the door. “Hello. I’m—”

  “My new neighbor. I’m so pleased to meet you at last. I’m Cookie Harkness. From across the way.” She held the plate with one hand and extended the other.

  Not wanting to offend her, I took her outstretched fingers. “I’m afraid I’m not—”

  “Oh, please. Don’t worry about not being ready to receive. I’m just a neighbor lady. May I?” she asked, one foot already inside the foyer.

  “Well, I—”

  Without giving me a chance to say more, she shook my hand, stepped inside and looked around at the empty, garish rooms.

  “Oh my. I’d forgotten how much Drexel loved color. No wonder, my dear, he was such a colorful man himself. Still is, I assume. Last we heard, he was living in the south of France. Aix, I believe, with his fourth or fifth true love. One does have trouble counting...anyway, for a man of his position he always lived modestly. Take this little place, for instance.”

  Over twelve thousand square feet under air conditioning little? Not counting the terraces, the pool, the patios. I held up both hands palms out, the universal signal for Stop. To my amazement, she did. “Mrs. Harkness, I am not your new neighbor, though I’d love to be. I’m Devalera Dunne, Mr. and Mrs. Grandese’s interior designer.”

  Cookie’s smile disappeared, and the covered plate—brownies, I guessed—sagged in her hands. “Oh. You should have stopped me.”

  “I did,” I said, trying for a smile.

  “These are brownies,” she said, glancing at the plate. “My cook made them. It’s an old New England custom, welcoming the new neighbors, but...” She was clearly at a loss.

  “The refrigerator is still functioning. We could leave them there for the Grandeses and put a note on the kitchen island.”

  “Oh, a lovely solution. Let’s do that.”

  Clearly she had been in the house before. She strode out to the kitchen without making a single false turn. She wore what my Irish grandmother would have called the Holy Trinity—a Tiffany tank watch, pearls and Ferragamos. I guess Nana would have called Cookie’s startling tennis bracelet the Pope. Aside from her sensational jewelry and her shoes, everything else about her appearance was simplicity itself—smooth pageboy hair, face devoid of any trace of makeup, and a sleeveless blue cotton dress that stopped precisely at her knees.

  She stashed her brownies in a slightly musty-smelling Subzero fridge, and I scribbled a note, ripped it out of my notebook and propped it on the kitchen island.

  “Well, I’m disappointed not to have met the Grandeses. My husband has told me so much about Francesco, but—” she shrugged, “—that’s life, Miss, ah, Dunne. Your name’s Irish, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mother always employed Irish maids. Said they never stole a thing. Nipped a bit, perhaps, but one can live with that if the tippling doesn’t get out of hand.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Miss...”

  “Mrs.”

  “Oh, certainly. Mrs. But I’ve forgotten your first name. It reminded me of a bakery product as I recall.” I put a finger on my chin as if deep in thought. “Oh, now I remember. You’re Hostess Twinkie. No that’s not it. It’s Cookie! You’re Cookie. But your surname escapes me. Of an unusual ethnic origin, isn’t it? Do jog my memory, Miss...”

  “Harkness. Mrs. Norman Harkness.” Shoulders thrust back, chin up, neck stretched taut, she added, “Norm and I are Mayflower descendants.”

  “Oh really? My ancestors came over on a boat too.”

  Cookie’s already taut jaw froze at the chin line. “That’s hardly—”

  “Here nor there.” I figured I’d finish an interrupted sentence for once. I know, I know. After telling Rossi that the job was all important, here I was shooting myself in the foot. Alienating one of the very people Deva Dunne Interiors needed most.

  The problem was I had a terrible temper and certain types of behavior made me crazy. Snobbery being one. I was constitutionally unable to ignore it or laugh it off or deal with it rationally. Oh no. I had to retaliate, cut the snob’s ego down to size, so that my own ego came out on top. That was a terrible character flaw. I needed to work on ridding myself of it, to take the psychological highroad and remind myself snobbery was a form of insecurity.

  So maybe I should have felt sorry for Cookie-the-Snob Harkness. I was working on it as I walked her to the front door. But not too hard. It was too much fun wondering what she’d be like when she heard Francesco fracture the language. But as she waved goodbye with a “Ta-ta” and strolled across Rum Row, it occurred to me that all she might hear was the sound of his money.

&n
bsp; An instant diagnosis. Another flaw in my character—snap judgments. Though in interior design it could often help me quickly solve a problem, analyzing people was a different story. In that arena I had a long way to go. Except for Rossi. When it came to Rossi, my judgment was right on target.

  I wandered out to the kitchen for my purse. I’d lock up, go back to the shop and wait for Tom Kruse’s fax. From past experience, I knew he’d be pricy but fair and that Francesco would get a faultless job.

  Key at the ready, I opened the front door and stepped outside. To my amazement, a flotilla of vehicles clogged Rum Row. Immediately in front of the house, a moving van the size of the Queen Mary was easing to a stop. A familiar limo drove up behind it, and behind that a pale blue panel truck emblazoned with Bebe’s Boutique in bright pink lettering.

  Holy cow. Moving day.

  Donny opened the limo’s rear door and Francesco jumped out. Then Donny reached in to assist Jewels, who carried little Frannie in a baby pouch across her breast. She’d ditched the gladiator spikes for flat thongs which evened the playing field height-wise for Francesco.

  “Hey,” he shouted when he spied me in the doorway. “I’m glad you’re here. We’re moving in, and I want you to see my stuff.”

  Oh boy. The moment of truth. Keep an open mind, I told myself, no matter how bad his things may be. You can convince him to get rid of what’s impossible and work the so-sos into some kind of decent decorative scheme. If he won’t listen to reason, return the retainer and walk away scot-free.

  I blew out a breath. That was the last thing I wanted to do.

  Two muscular men emerged from the cab of the truck, both hefty enough to give Donny pause.

  “This way, Phil,” Francesco yelled, and they lumbered up the driveway to the garage. “The king bed and the high-def TV go in the apartment upstairs. My man Donny’ll show you where. All the rest of the stuff goes here in the garage.”

  The two movers loped back to the truck to start unloading. Francesco turned to me. “You surprised we’re moving in so soon?”