Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

by Jean Harrington

  “A little. The house is far from ready.”

  “Yeah, I know, but things are working out good. My business on the East Coast can wait, so we decided to move in right away. A hotel’s no place for a baby. The dust we’ll be kicking up during the decorating won’t be good for Jewels or Frannie either, so we’re doing a switcheroo. While the work’s going on, we’ll stay in the chauffeur’s apartment, and Donny’ll live in the house. That way we can both guard my stuff. It’ll be okay in the garage. It’s air-conditioned, and I got security in here too.”

  A radiant Jewels strolled toward us, cuddling the sleeping baby, who was enveloped in a blue blanket and the sweet aroma of baby powder. In that moment I envied her. She’d found her destiny and how many of us ever do?

  “Frannie, I’m going to show the man from Bebe’s where to bring the baby equipment,” Jewels said, walking back toward the waiting panel truck.

  As the movers staggered in with a tall, bulky object shrouded in a quilted cover, I followed them into the garage, my anxiety level soaring. This first piece would tell me a lot about Francesco’s taste and what I’d have to work with.

  “Some of these things’ve been in storage for years, and I kind of disremember what they look like. Remove the wrap, boys,” Francesco ordered. “Show the little lady whatcha got.”

  The muscles in his arms straining the sleeves of his Harvard T-shirt, Phil unbuckled a series of canvas straps. His helper in a tee from the Foxy Lady Lounge slid the protective padding away.

  My heart stopped beating.

  “Oh. My. God. Is this a—? No, it can’t be. No way.” I swiveled around to Francisco then back again. “Nobody has one of these. Do they? It’s impossible. I’ve never seen anything to compare. Not in real life. Not outside a museum.” I was babbling and knew it, but couldn’t help myself. The shock was too great.

  “You like the desk, huh?” Francesco asked.

  “Is it a Townsend?” I whispered as if we were in a church. “From Newport?”

  “So they told me.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Sotheby’s.”

  I hoped the movers brought in a chair next because I needed to sit down. Now.

  I must have turned pale. Francesco reached out to take my arm. “You all right?”

  “Yes, stunned is all.”

  The secretarial desk in Honduras mahogany stretched tall and magnificent in front of us, every line pure and perfect all the way from the bonnet top to the matched front panels to the curved drawers, to the cushioned feet.

  Francesco ran a hand over the wood, caressing each curve. I didn’t blame him. I would have done the same thing if I dared touch it.

  “Original hardware?” I managed to ask.

  “Better be. For what they soaked me.”

  For this piece alone, the security system needed to be up and functioning. And Donny needed to stay alert day and night. And there was a truck full of other furniture still to be unloaded. Unbelievable.

  I watched, jaw agape, as the men carried in a long narrow object. From its shape I guessed it was a tall case clock. Feeling like a kid in a candy store, I practically drooled while they unwrapped it.

  In hand-carved walnut, with a hunting scene painted on the dial face, and marvelous brass finials that nearly touched the garage ceiling, I’d swear the clock was also worthy of a museum.

  “English or American?” I asked.

  “Federalist.”

  “Is everything this good?”

  “I don’t buy junk,” Francesco replied. “Wait’ll you see the blanket chests. Original paint on them. I beat out Williamsburg for one.”

  “A chair. I need a chair.”

  “Hey, Phil,” he yelled at the guy in the Harvard shirt. “The lady needs to sit down.”

  As soon as Phil brought in an authentic Windsor, I slumped into it and watched the floor show.

  Francesco had the eye of a connoisseur, all right, and the money to indulge it.

  “My grandfather was a cabinetmaker,” he said, stroking a Chippendale chest as if it were a woman. “Learned his trade in the old country. Worked for peanuts all his life, but he didn’t care. He loved the wood. Me too.

  “When I was a kid, he’d take me to the Met two, three times a year. We’d ride the train down from Providence and wander the furniture rooms. You know, the ones from different periods. Nonno would point out why a piece deserved to be there. What made it stand out. He’d talk about the skill of the craftsman and show me the details somebody else might miss. Taught me everything I know. About wood. And women.” He barked out a short laugh. “Not about anything else, I guess.”

  “That was a lot, Francesco,” I said, sitting there in a daze.

  “Yeah, you’re right. So you like my stuff?” he asked again.

  “I’m in love, Francesco. In love.”

  As more and more pieces were unwrapped, I realized Francesco had concentrated his collection on museum-quality Early American hard case goods. He had no upholstered pieces, no artwork, no accessories, no rugs. A good thing. That’s where I came in.

  When the last piece had been delivered, the garage was pretty much packed. Donny would have to park the Ferrari out on the driveway. I rose out of the Windsor with some difficulty.

  “You leaving?” Francesco asked.

  I nodded. “Your collection has given me some ideas for the house. As soon as my thoughts gel, I’ll get back to you. For now I need to get to the shop. The painter’s fax is probably waiting for me.”

  “Whatever he says is okay. Get him started. I’m in a bind here. I got a family to get settled,” he said, sounding positively delighted about it.

  “Fine.” Purse over my shoulder, I headed for the open overhead doors. “Oh, by the way, a neighbor stopped by with brownies. They’re in the fridge. Her name is Cookie Harkness.”

  Francesco nodded. “Oh yeah. That must be Norm’s wife. What a guy. He could talk Jesus off the cross.” He shook his head. Whether in disgust or confusion I couldn’t tell. “Norm tipped me off about this house. The only good tip he ever gave me. He’s got a lot of opinions about everything, but when it comes to the ponies, he’s got no judgment at all. I musta been nuts giving him a loan for the Preakness. Getting my money back’s going to be murder.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Francesco had me bamboozled. I couldn’t fit the various parts of his personality into an understandable whole. Entrepreneur. Lover. Man of taste. Crass lout. Definitely a connoisseur. Possibly a man of questionable dealings. And just possibly the victim of a crime.

  For some reason, maybe that Townsend desk, I wanted to believe he was an honorable businessman, a little rough around the edges but in love with his wife and baby and seeking the good life. Not a target on somebody’s hit list. And not the person responsible for the death of Tomas and the driver of the propane truck.

  So despite Rossi’s misgivings, until the police proved that Francesco was guilty, I’d consider him innocent. Besides, not to be a hypocrite, the heart-stopping bonanza I’d just been privileged to see had me panting to work for him. At least until he proved he couldn’t be trusted. He should show his intent soon—within a month in fact—when Chip laid claim to the hidden money. How Francesco dealt with that would tell me just about everything I needed to know.

  On my way home, I stopped at the shop to pick up Tom’s fax. His price was high but he hadn’t hit it out of the ballpark. Next stop was Publix Market for fruit and salad fixings to augment Rossi’s pizza. I tossed a tray of chocolate brownies in the wagon too. Cookie had started a trend. Funny the way Francesco had referred to her husband. As if he had little to no respect for the man. Another piece to try and fit into the puzzle.

  But not the only one. Yesterday I’d decided to go for a GYN exam, and today the sight of little Frannie nestled in his blue blanket was an adorable reminder to follow through and get myself checked out. Why not? Maybe it was curiosity and nothing more, but I wanted to prove once and for all that babies were
in my future. Rossi was sweet to try and downplay my worry, but he was a man, and superb detective or not, when it came to this subject he couldn’t possibly understand how a woman would feel.

  I stripped off my clothes and took a quick shower before climbing into a pair of white shorts and an apricot halter—one of Rossi’s favorites—so low cut in front, I never wore it outside of the condo. Just the thing for tonight.

  I remade the bed with fresh sheets and arranged a pile of pillows on top. Then I chilled a bottle of champagne I’d been saving for a special occasion. For a finishing touch, a few early-blooming gardenias from the yard soon had the living room filled with perfume.

  After turning the condo lights down low, I put on a sultry Julio Iglesias CD. “Amore, Amore, Amore. La la, la, la. La, la, la, la.”

  O h, give me a piano I can lie across.

  My chimes rang with Beethoven’s Fifth. The magic moment. Rossi was here. Still humming “Amore,” I hurried to the door and yanked it open. “At last...”

  “Surprise!”

  “Lee St. James!” My mouth dropped open. I know it did. “Surprise? I’m shocked. I thought you were in New York. Come in. Come in.”

  I grabbed Lee in a hug. She clung to me for a moment then wheeled her luggage into the foyer and burst into tears. Her hands covering her face, she stood with her shoulders heaving and sobbed. Only six months earlier, radiantly happy, she’d left for New York with her brand new husband, Paulo St. James. His scholarship to the Art Students’ League was the opportunity of a lifetime. They’d both been thrilled, and everyone who knew them had been thrilled for them.

  Now this.

  “Come sit down,” I coaxed. Putting an arm around her, I drew her into the living room. As she sat weeping on the couch, I raced to the bathroom for a box of tissues.

  Without a word, I handed her five or six and watched as she soaked through them. Whatever the problem was, she needed to cry it out, but as minutes ticked by with no end in sight, I brushed the hair back from her cheek and gently lowered her hands from her face.

  Her nose red, her eyes puffy, she stammered, “I’m s-so s-sorry, but I can’t seem to help myself.”

  “Is it Paulo?”

  She nodded. I handed her a fresh batch of tissues and gradually, one shuddering breath at a time, she gained control.

  “I shouldn’t be bothering y’all like this, but I didn’t know where to go except here.”

  “You’re welcome anytime. You know that. But where is Paulo?”

  She made a ball of the damp tissues and clutched them in her lap. “Paris. Paris, France.”

  Uh-oh. “Why Paris?”

  She gulped and forced down a new sob. “He was offered an internship at the Louvre, a chance to study with some of Europe’s masters. Henri Bertrand asked for him especially.”

  I shook my head at the name.

  “Y’all don’t know him?”

  “Offhand, no. Sounds familiar though.”

  “He’s one of the best portrait painters in France. Having him as a mentor is an honor. Paulo couldn’t refuse but...but...”

  “What?” I asked as gently as I could.

  “He was about to refuse anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “His stipend didn’t include me. And we couldn’t afford to have me go with him.”

  “So Paulo went alone?” That was a greater surprise than finding her on my doorstep. The way he loved the girl, with his heart shining in his eyes every time he looked at her, I was amazed he’d left her alone for any reason on earth.

  With a new spurt of tears running down her cheeks, Lee said, “He intended to refuse, but I told him if he did I’d divorce him. That I wanted to be married to a successful painter not a failure.” She lowered her arms to her knees and laid her head on them. Though muffled, her words were clear enough. “How could I have said such a cruel thing? I love him more than life. I don’t care if he’s a success or not. I just want him to be happy, and his work makes him happy. He had to go.”

  At a loss for words, I rubbed her back in a fruitless effort at comfort. Last October when Lee and Paulo were married, they had been so much in love, an aura radiated around them. Now to see her like this made me want to weep too. I searched my mind for something positive to say.

  “Paulo knows what you’ve given up for him. He must love you all the more.”

  She raised her tear-stained face. “Think so?” The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips for an instant.

  “Definitely.” I spoke as if I knew. In a way, I did. I knew Paulo’s dedication to the talent—maybe even the genius—he was striving to perfect. He would understand Lee’s sacrifice better than anyone. Still...

  “He was crying when he left, Deva. Imagine. Crying like a baby. So was I.”

  I could picture the two of them at a JFK parting gate, clinging to each other until the last possible second. “How long will he be gone?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Until he learns everything he can. Or until his stipend runs out.” With an almost visible force of will, she straightened her shoulders and brushed her long blond hair away from her face. “I sold some of Momma’s silver to pay for my airfare here, and I put the money Paulo gave me back in his luggage. So if you haven’t hired someone else for the shop, I’d surely love to work there again.”

  A steel magnolia. That was what Lee had been ever since I’d known her. “And I’d surely love to have you. You can stay here with me if you like.”

  A faint light shone in her eyes. “I didn’t want to ask but—”

  “No need. There’s plenty of room. I have two bedrooms.”

  Da da da DA.

  Rossi.

  He stood outside with a pizza box in one hand, a bunch of grocery store flowers in the other, and a big smile wreathing his face.

  “We have company,” I said.

  The smile melted away. “Oh yeah?” he growled.

  I was beginning to think smoke inhalation had permanently affected his voice. “It’s Lee. She’s alone.”

  He handed me the flowers and raised a singed, quizzical eyebrow.

  “Paulo’s living in Paris.”

  “Uh-oh.” It was “uh-oh” for poor Lee and “uh-oh” for our romantic evening.

  Outwardly unfazed, Rossi strode into the living room, plunked the pizza box on the coffee table and spread his arms wide. “Come to poppa,” he said to Lee.

  With a little cry of delight, she jumped off the couch and hugged him tight. He hugged her back and kissed her cheek, then held her at arm’s length.

  “Except for the red nose and the swollen eyes, you’re as beautiful as ever. Still Lorelei and Guinevere rolled into one.” He let her go and said, “First I’m going to open a bottle of wine so we can have a toast. Then I want to hear everything. And I mean everything.” He winked. “Even the things you don’t want to tell me.”

  He was trying to lighten the mood. I knew Lee understood that, but she blushed anyway. “I’ll tell you everything my momma would have approved of.”

  “That’ll be just fine.” Scooping up the pizza box, he disappeared into the kitchen.

  “He’s such a darlin’ man, Deva,” Lee said, managing a watery grin. “Y’all look so cute together.”

  “Cute?” Rossi yelled from the kitchen. “That’s a first.”

  Were Rossi and I together? I couldn’t have answered that if I had to. I’d be lonely without him in my life. He filled the gap Jack’s death had created. But I was enjoying my independence—as well as Rossi’s company. I had the best of both worlds and felt selfish for even thinking that way. But that was the truth, wasn’t it?

  As I settled onto the couch alongside Lee, Rossi returned holding an opened bottle of merlot in one hand and two glasses upside down in the other. He went back for one more glass then poured a few fingers of wine for each of us.

  “A toast,” he said, raising his wine on high and arching his remnant of an eyebrow at me. “To good friends.”

 
; I nearly choked. Is that what he thought we were? Friends? Lee, yes, without question. But I didn’t consider Rossi and me as just friends. But maybe he did. Maybe he enjoyed his independence as much as I enjoyed mine.

  Whatever he thought about our relationship, I knew he regretted our lost evening and wouldn’t stay the night. Not now. Leaving the two of them to chat, I went out to the kitchen to heat the pizza and toss a salad.

  Sure enough, after dinner he said, “I have some desk work to clear up, so I’d better get back to the station.”

  I hated to see him go so soon, but tonight Lee was the one who needed the TLC.

  What Rossi needed I could tell the minute I walked him to his car and he pressed against me.

  “I’m so sorry about tonight,” I began.

  With a finger to my lips, he cut off my apology and upped his chin in the direction of my condo. “You did the right thing. That girl comes first tonight. Having them apart like this isn’t good. We need to figure out a way to send her to Paris.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, hugging him even closer and, for a sweet moment, resting my head on his chest. “You know something, Rossi, under that tough guy exterior you’re really a softy.”

  “Not at the moment,” he said, wryly. “Come to my place tomorrow after work. We’ll order in Chinese, talk and...”

  He lowered his face to mine, seizing my mouth in a kiss that as far as I was concerned could have gone on all night. Might have, too, but for a croaky, “Hey, love birds!”

  We sprang apart, guilty as a couple of teens making out in class. Of all people, Chip came striding, actually striding, toward us, wearing the biggest grin I’d seen on his face since La Cucina’s demise.

  “How you feeling?” Rossi asked.

  “The burns on my chest are still sore but other than that I’m fine. Never better.” Chip took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “See that. Not even wheezing.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said.

  “I’ve got more good news too. Francesco’s hired me to cook for him and the family.”

  “Is that right?” Rossi said.

  “Yeah, until I can claim the money. I don’t think he’s going to go after it. He knows I’m strapped for cash and wants to help out. He’s hired Bonita too. Tomas’s widow.”