Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

by Jean Harrington

  Rossi stepped nearer to Chip and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Deva. Watch yourself in there.”

  Chip stared at him, baffled. “Why say that? The guy’s only trying to help.”

  “Could be. Just so you know. I’ve warned Deva too.”

  Rossi shot me a glance to see if I’d object, but I didn’t. Mr. Macho had my best interests at heart. Why fight it? I tossed him an air kiss.

  He shook his head and turned back to Chip. “The cause of the explosion is still unclear. It could be what it seems, an accident. Or something more.”

  Chip nodded hesitantly, obviously not happy with where this was heading.

  “We don’t think anyone was after you, but Grandese is another story. Somebody might be after him.”

  Chip’s jaw went slack. “Grandese was targeted?”

  “No proof of that,” Rossi said. “Just be careful. Another thing. No one knows who hid the money in the wall, or how long it’s been there. There had to be a reason it wasn’t in a bank. If whoever hid it learns it’s been found, anything can happen. Or that person may be long gone. Since we don’t know either way, keep your eyes and ears open. And let me know if anything strikes you as suspicious. Anything at all.”

  “Okay.” Chip’s elation of a few minutes ago had fled. Once again he looked like an injured man.

  “Are you well enough to hold down a job, Chip?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said, perking up a little. “AudreyAnn’s coming along to do the prep work, so I’ll be okay. Getting stronger every day.”

  He had lost some serious weight lately and he gave his pants a hitch over his nearly flat belly. “It sure is great having AudreyAnn back. That was a long six months while she was gone.” His sunshine smile dimmed. “She says she was staying with an aunt, but wherever she was doesn’t matter. She’s back. That’s all that counts.”

  Was it? A year earlier, AudreyAnn had had a fling with Dick Parker, the former owner of the Surfside Condominiums. Had history repeated itself? If not with Dick, with someone new? For Chip’s sake, I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. But the question hovered in the air and in Chip’s expression. Where had AudreyAnn been these past six months?

  And a question far more serious: Why would anyone want to blow up Francesco’s property?

  Chapter Twelve

  While I couldn’t do a thing about Francesco’s business dealings, his house was another story. I could make a difference there, and I’d start right as you first stepped in.

  That meant Zuber scenic murals for the foyer. Just like in the White House. Expensive as sin and beautiful as Eden. Francesco had said go for broke, and the French murals were top of the line—hand-blocked and hand-painted original eighteenth-century designs. Along with a black-and-white marble floor, they’d create a drop-dead entrance.

  One scene especially had me captivated. Les Zones Terrestres, a tropical dream vista with flamingos, palm trees and a distant mountain reaching for the sky. It held a variety of luscious colors I could pluck out for the rest of the house. Though I’d use Benjamin Moore’s subtle Putnam Ivory on the living room walls, above the dining room’s perfectly proportioned wainscoting a vivid color would add a jolt of excitement. Maybe a custom-mixed coral with yellow undertones for an interesting complexity. A few words to Tom Kruse and he’d understand the effect I was after. Or if not, he’d be willing to keep mixing until I reached that “aha!” moment. Heavy silk panels at the windows, very simple but rich with—

  “Deva, a Mr. Grandese on the line,” Lee said.

  Busy at my drafting table, I hadn’t heard the shop phone ring. “Good morning, Francesco. I’m working on your proposal even as we speak. Should have something to show you in a day or two, but the bids will take longer.”

  “Ball park figures’ll be all right. I want action. That paint crew you hired is hot on the job, and that’s what I like. Things are humming over here.” A little throat clearing, then, “I’ll be away for a couple days, so I’ll take a look at what you got after I come back. Want you to know we’re throwing a little housewarming party Friday night. Chip’s working on the food already. The place is all torn up so we’ll eat outside. Under a grapevine like in the old country.” He laughed, throaty as a lounge singer. “Seven o’clock. Bring that detective along. Ciao.”

  The phone went dead. I stared at the receiver for a long moment before setting it back in the cradle. Francesco might have thought he was inviting me but what he’d barked out was an order.

  I slumped in the ergonomic chair and swiveled like mad. I should tell him to shove it...and throw away what might be the only chance I’d ever get to install Zuber wallpaper. As I sat there swiveling, I knew I wouldn’t boycott his party. Every woman has her price, and I’d just been bought, lock, stock and barrel, for a roll of wallpaper. Well, several rolls. Actually about fifty thousand dollars’ worth.

  I stretched in place, took a deep breath and went back to work. If I could nail the basic design, I’d have the presentation boards ready to show Francesco when he returned. Then I’d have him sign a standard, boilerplate contract. As a financial safety net that meant fifty percent upfront for most purchases, and one hundred percent upfront for the made-to-order, over-the-top scenic paper. I wouldn’t risk doing business with him otherwise, not with Rossi’s warning echoing in my mind. Carpeting, artwork and accessory items could be filled in later. Naples had world-class art galleries and antique stores, so once he okayed my concept I’d begin shopping.

  At one o’clock I looked up, startled, as Lee placed a tuna wrap and a bottle of ice water at my elbow.

  “Coming up for air, Deva?” she asked, pale today but composed, a euphemism for miserably unhappy. Lord knows I wanted to help her, but the cure was Paulo. Anything else was only a Band-Aid on the wound.

  She wore the black dress and high-heeled sandals we’d bought together a year ago, the same dress she wore the day she and Paulo fell in love. Right in this very shop, a moment I would never forget. How could I? I’d seen the spark leap between them.

  “How are you today?” I tried to keep the worry out of my voice.

  “I’m fine, Deva,” she said, though she looked anything but. “Paulo just texted me. He’s found a room with a north light. His landlady...he calls her the concierge...is very nice.” A frown furrowed Lee’s lovely face. “I wonder what he means by nice?”

  “He means she’s old and fat and loves the sound of his Jamaican French.”

  She laughed. “He might mean she’s young and pretty. You know they say French girls have a way with them.”

  The ooh-la-la effect. “No,” I said trying to speak like I really knew. “Concierges are always old and fat. It’s a job requirement. And besides, to Paulo you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  She didn’t deny it but didn’t reply either. She was probably remembering when he’d told her the very same thing. The Yarmouthport bells jangled, and she hurried over to welcome a woman searching for that perfect lamp.

  Though Lee didn’t mention Paulo again, she was even quieter than usual for the rest of the day. At five o’clock I handed her my car keys. I’d be with Rossi tonight, and she’d be alone. As I hugged her goodbye, I hoped she wouldn’t be too lonely, but of course she would be. Still she left with a smile and a wave, and I settled down at the bureau plat by the front window to wait.

  Rossi kept such erratic work hours, I couldn’t believe it when he drove down the alley a few minutes later. I wasted no time grabbing the overnight bag I’d packed that morning, locking the shop door and hurrying outside.

  *

  “Let’s eat out of the boxes,” Rossi said when the Pagoda Gardens delivery boy left. “Chinese tastes better that way.”

  “A quote from Wolfgang Puck?”

  “Yeah, her. I like pizza straight from the box too.”

  I stared at his smiling face. He was playing a word game with me. “You’re a clever guy, you know that?”

  H
e backed up against a kitchen counter and folded his arms, straining the orange plumeria blossoms on his Miami Vice shirt to the max. “I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got you alone at last, and I’m talking Chinese food instead of tearing your clothes off and chasing you through the house.”

  “Let’s be serious,” I said, leaning on the fridge for a little support. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for days.”

  “I know. So out with it. What’s bothering you?”

  “Lately I’ve been thinking I might want to have a child someday, so I thought I’d go and be checked out. Have a GYN exam. You know, just to make sure everything’s okay.” I studied him for moment, trying to gauge his reaction, but it’s hard to read a closed book and Rossi wasn’t opening up. Only the lids of his hooded eyes moved as he looked away from me. “But suppose it isn’t? Suppose I have a problem?”

  “That’s what’s been bothering you? Where’s the law that says you have to have kids?”

  “Don’t ask ridiculous questions. This isn’t one of your cases.”

  Hot as flame, his glance seared me. “Oh yes, it is. It’s a case of my being crazy about you. So don’t go creating barriers between us.” He stepped away from the counter. With a few strides, he closed the space and spread-eagled his hands on the fridge, trapping me against the door. “If you try, you’ll have a war on your hands. Though the one thing I can’t fight is your memory of Jack.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is about?”

  I shook my head. “No. This is about the future. Don’t you want to have a family someday?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Suppose just for the sake of argument that you hook up with a woman who can’t have children. What then?”

  “There are all kinds of families, Deva. Family means a group of people who love each other.”

  “Oh, please. That kind of family wouldn’t be enough.”

  “For whom?”

  “A guy like you.”

  He lowered his head, shading his face so I couldn’t see his expression. “I don’t have a choice,” he said softly.

  “Of course you do.”

  He raised his head. His eyes bore into mine. “No, I don’t. I haven’t wanted to bring up the subject...it’s too humiliating. Easier to pretend the problem doesn’t exist.”

  “What are you getting at? What problem?”

  “Maybe you should sit down.”

  He had me scared suddenly. He’d been concealing something from me. Something serious.

  “All right. The living room?”

  We sat side by side on his couch, and he half turned to face me. The sadness in his expression tugged at my heart. Whatever he had to say, I needed to know fast and clean. No softening the blow. No easing the pain.

  “What’s the matter? Just tell me. I can’t stand seeing you so sad.”

  He picked up my hand and, holding it tight, said, “I’ve been seeing a doctor. A proctologist.”

  “A what?”

  “No point in keeping quiet about this.”

  “You can tell me anything. You know that.”

  His eyes avoiding mine, he said, “The doc found something.”

  My heart stopped. He was sick. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  He hesitated then blurted out the words as though if he didn’t do so quickly, he wouldn’t be able to. “I can’t have children.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before adding, “I’m sterile.”

  “No way! I don’t believe that.”

  He hung his head. “Believe.”

  I squeezed the hand holding mine. “That doesn’t matter. And I never meant anything more in my life.”

  He flung his left leg over his right knee and raised one of those singed eyebrows. “Gotcha!”

  I dropped his hand as if it were a hunk of lava and reared back on the cushions. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” I wasn’t asking a question.

  The eyebrow rose higher.

  “Not fair, Rossi. Not fair.”

  “But effective. Now...” His voice was positively chummy. I could have kicked him in the groin. Should have. “Is there anything else you wish to add to this conversation?”

  “Yes. You’re diabolical.”

  “Of course I am. I’m a detective. So to end the subject once and for all, find out the truth if you must. Go to your doctor. Ease your mind, but understand this—I’m crazy about you, and always will be, no matter what he says.”

  “She.” All the fight had gone out of me. I wanted to make love not war.

  Rossi must have felt the same way. “You know what,” he said, reaching out and pulling me against the plumerias. “The Chinese can wait.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday evening we were a block away from the Grandese house when a booming Italian love song exploded in the air.

  “O sole...o sole mio...sta ’nfronte a te! O sole...”

  Rossi and I looked at each other and grinned. Rum Row would never be the same.

  We rang the bell and waited at the front door. For the occasion, Rossi had donned his most lurid Hawaiian shirt, lavender orchids on a vivid purple background.

  “You’d better stay out of the kitchen,” I warned. “I’ll never find you in there.”

  Before he could ask why not, a sad-eyed, dark-haired woman met us at the door. “Everyone is out by the pool,” she said, gesturing to the brick path stretching along the side lawn.

  “Your name is?” I asked.

  “Bonita,” she said softly. “I was the wife of Tomas.” Ah. The woman Chip had mentioned.

  I took her hand. “I am so sorry for your loss, Bonita.”

  An expression I couldn’t fathom crossed her face. “No one is sadder than I, señora. Inside me is all the sorrow in the world.”

  “I know,” I said. And I did, but there was little more to say, and with a parting smile, I took Rossi’s arm and together we walked along the brick path.

  “Don’t be sad,” he said. “Not when you look so beautiful tonight.”

  With his words ringing in my ears, I strolled onto the terrace where a table draped with a white cloth was set for a party. Francesco dropped a basting brush next to the barbeque grill and rushed over to us. “Right on time. I like that.” He eyeballed my halter dress, careening to a stop at the neckline. “Looking sharp, Deva. Green’s your color.”

  “Yours too, Francesco.”

  He laughed and looked down at his green polo shirt. “Yeah, we’re in father and daughter outfits tonight.” This was the first time I’d seen him wear anything but a dark suit, white shirt and silk tie. At his ease with black chest hair sprouting out of the neck of the shirt and a pair of white shorts revealing his tree-trunk legs, he was obviously enjoying the role of family man. “Hey, Jewels,” he yelled. “Come say hello. I gotta get back to the grill.”

  Jewels walked across the lawn with little Frannie on her hip. In her loose white shift and thong sandals, she looked like a model for a teen magazine. As she came near, she smiled at Rossi and examined my face. “You look good. The bruises are all gone. I like your dress too.”

  “And I like yours.”

  “It’s a maternity. I’ve been dying to wear one. Frannie thinks I don’t need it yet, but...” She shrugged and kissed the top of the baby’s head. He drooled and cooed, and she cooed “Nice boy” back at him.

  I glanced over at Rossi. He was grinning at little Frannie, which I interpreted to mean, “Babies are great.” Well they are, I told myself, so don’t read into it.

  “I’m not drinking these days,” Jewels said. “But why don’t you have something?”

  A portable bar had been set up by the pool with Donny presiding. We strolled over to him. “White wine for the lady,” Rossi said.

  Poker faced, Donny nodded. “Chardonnay? Pinot grigio?”

  “The pinot,” I replied.

  “For you, sir?”

  “The same
.”

  So far, that was the most I’d ever heard Donny say. The phrase “a man of few words” must have been invented with him in mind.

  As we sipped and admired the garden with its lush tropical plantings, Bonita came outside and took little Frannie from Jewels.

  I inhaled deeply. The perfume of night-blooming jasmine and barbeque sauce floated on the breeze along with a booming aria from La Bohème.

  “A half hour, tops, and Grandese can expect a cruiser in his driveway,” Rossi said in my ear.

  “I’ve never been to a party where cops showed up.”

  “Tonight’s the night,” he said with a laugh.

  “Hey, you two,” Francesco shouted from across the lawn. “Why don’t you pay your friend a visit? He’s slaving away in the kitchen. We’re having his home-made lobster ravioli tonight and my special ribs. Antipasto, iced shrimp, tiramisu. How’s that grab you?”

  Rossi gave him a thumb’s up. With wineglasses in hand, we headed for the kitchen, nearly colliding en route with Cookie Harkness.

  “Miss Dunne! What a surprise.” Clad in bright pink cotton tonight, she seemed stunned to see me.

  Accompanying her was a deeply tanned man decked out in an ascot tie, linen shirt and rust-colored slacks embroidered with tiny green palm trees.

  Cookie waved a languid hand in his vicinity. “My husband, Norman Chandler Harkness.” She turned to Rossi. “And you are?”

  “Victor Giuseppe Rossi.” A three name response to a three name introduction. Good for Rossi, but Giuseppe? Had he been named for Uncle Beppe of the mysterious demise? Hmm, interesting.

  Norm gave me a flabby handshake and pointed a finger at my glass. “You beat us to it. We were just chatting with the chef about the menu. Now we’re off to get a libation.”

  “By all means,” Rossi said. “We’ll trade places with you.”

  The kitchen buzzed with activity. By the stove, Bonita held little Frannie on her hip while she warmed a bottle of baby formula. AudreyAnn, in white slacks and a T-shirt under stress, greeted us with a curt nod and kept on arranging an antipasto platter. And Chip, a Coffee, Tea or Me apron over his chef’s clothes, was busy dividing a bowl of chilled shrimp into ten individual appetizer dishes.