Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

by Jean Harrington

  She loved it. Not a good sign.

  Francesco blew out a breath. “This is Hudson River? Where’s the trees? Where’s the grass? Where’s the water?”

  “Try to keep an open mind,” I said. “Think of the excitement this piece generates.”

  “Excitement I save for the bedroom.” He waved a hand at the painting. “You’re killing me with this.”

  My turn to blow out a breath. While the installers shifted from one foot to another, waiting for the verdict, Francesco stepped up to the oil and peered at the signature. “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Diego Pina,” Stan replied. “He’s not well known. Yet. But I predict he will be.”

  Francesco spun around. “You got a crystal ball?”

  Alarmed, Stan backed away from Francesco’s hairy hands.

  “We have it on approval,” I said, forcing my voice to remain calm. “We can send it back.”

  “I like it, Frannie,” Jewels said.

  “Is that right?” Francesco spat out the words. “What did I tell you? When it comes to the house, no comments.”

  “What am I, dumb or something?” No longer the passive little flower of a month ago, Jewels turned on her heel and stalked off with the baby in her arms.

  “She’s pissed,” Francesco said to everybody and nobody in particular. He upped his chin at me. “You think this Diego guy’s got the goods?”

  “No guarantees. But the painting’s a stunner.”

  He heaved a sigh, sending a waft of garlic across the room. “Okay, hang it up,” he said to Stan. “Let’s see what we got. The mother of my kids likes it. For this,” he said, eying me and stabbing a forefinger at the oil, “you owe me one.”

  “What do you want, Francesco?”

  “I want you should stay in the house while I’m burying Donny.”

  “What?”

  He threw his arms wide, shrugging at the same time. “You said it yourself. I love all this stuff...except that.” The abstract. “I can’t leave the place alone for a whole week.”

  “A week?”

  “Yeah. Somebody has to be here to make sure everything’s safe. And what about the contractors? Who’s gonna let them in? I don’t want delays. As it is, building the kitchen’s taking longer than the pyramids.”

  “Custom work takes time.”

  As if he were swatting flies, he waved a hand at my words. “I know. I know.”

  “I’d like to accommodate you, but I have a business to run. I can’t just hole up in your house for a week.” What nerve. Who did this guy think he was?

  “No, no, no. Not days. Nights. You already got the entry code. You turn on the security system and you’re okay. Mornings you let in the workers and then you leave.” He arched an eyebrow. “That detective boyfriend of yours? Have him stay too. Though on second thought, maybe that’s not such a hot idea. He needs to concentrate on the job. So far he hasn’t nailed anybody for killing Donny. That’s taking longer than the kitchen. He doesn’t even know who sent us that goddamn dump truck.”

  Francesco wasn’t alone in his frustration. I had no idea how Rossi was progressing with the case. But about the toy truck incident, at least he knew Bonita was involved. I wondered if he’d stopped by to question her. At best he used to say very little about his work but now—nothing.

  A flurry of movement caught my eye. I glanced over at Stan and Larry. They were lifting the abstract into place on the long wall opposite the archway into the dining room. As they straightened the canvas and stepped away, my heart sang. The space was perfect, the size of the painting was perfect, the colors were perfect. I turned to Francesco.

  “What do you think?”

  His eyes were shining. “I never woulda believed it, but it’s sensational. It stays.”

  “Deal! So do I. Nights only. For one week.” If Rossi knew, he’d have a fit, but he wouldn’t know, would he? Or maybe he wouldn’t care if he did.

  Francesco gave me a celebratory pat on the back. I didn’t see it coming, and it sent me reeling. “You can let these guys out and lock up,” he said, oblivious. “I gotta go take care of Jewels.” He shook his head with something like disgust. “Geesh, women. But I feel a hell of a lot better knowing you’ll be looking after the place.”

  He strode toward the front door, then as a random thought struck him, he swiveled back for an instant. “While you’re staying here, if anybody shows up you don’t know, don’t let them in. It’ll only mean trouble.”

  “Hey, wait a min—”

  Too late. He had ducked out, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hoot owls had invaded Rum Row. Sunday night I lay awake for hours listening to them screech from the treetops. They were predators, weren’t they? Flesh eaters? I shivered on the four-poster in the unfinished master suite, imagining flesh-eating creepy-crawlies clicking along the floor.

  The feather-filled duvet was first too hot, then too cold. Cold or not, I broke out in a sweat every time I glanced at my snub-nosed Cobra on the nightstand. I usually kept the gun locked in the bottom drawer of my desk, but now it was just a fingertip away and gleaming in the moonlight. The thought that I might have to use it kept me awake too.

  Worse, God help me, was my longing for Rossi. These few days without him had been hell. And I had a lifetime to go. Had setting him adrift been the biggest mistake of my life? I kept bumping into his accusation—I was scared. Scared of a new commitment. Scared of being hurt again. Scared of living. Every time the thought popped up, “No, not true,” bonged in my head like an annoying bell.

  I tossed off the duvet yet again. Was Rossi right? Was I so wimpy I was nothing but a bundle of fears? Scared to be alone in the dark. Scared I’d be alone in the dark forever. I’d better get a grip. I had no one to rely on but myself, and if the doors of Deva Dunne Interiors weren’t open more often than they had been recently, I’d soon have something else to fear. Bankruptcy.

  No. I sat up and dangled my legs over the edge of the mattress. I’d be damned if I’d let that happen. After this week I’d get back on a normal track. In the meantime I did have to shop for Francesco and Nikhil and keep the shop closed while I did so. I’d also have to squeeze in a visit to the woman who wanted help with her “blah” house. I heaved a sigh and lay back down. After that, as soon as I had time for interviews, I’d hire a new assistant...but for Rossi there was no substitute and never would be.

  At dawn I gave up on the night, flung back the duvet and dressed for trench warfare—jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers. Foot sloughing through antiques and collectibles shops and a raft of thrift stores didn’t call for style. After a moment’s hesitation, I dug in my luggage for a larger handbag and dropped in the pistol. Along with the usuals I added a bottle of water and some hand sanitizer to the bag. My hands were sure to be sweaty and soiled after a day in the antiques trenches. With everything stowed in it, the bag weighed a ton. No doubt the Cobra added its share to the overload. Should I take it with me or not? Yes. I didn’t want to leave it here in the house for someone to find, even if it did weigh heavy—in more ways than one.

  At eight, the Smallbone crew arrived. Hungry, I ignored Rossi’s commonsense warning not to eat anything from this kitchen and yanked open the fridge, just in case something luscious and irresistible lurked inside. Nada. Tom Kruse strolled in carrying a giant black coffee and an Egg McMuffin. All smiles, he looked as though he’d had a good night’s sleep too.

  “Work on the children’s rooms this week, okay?” I said. “The master suite is occupied.”

  “That was my plan, though one room’s as good as another,” he replied, between munches and sips.

  I tossed the purse over my shoulder, trying hard not to list to starboard. One hand on the outer door, I said, “The owner wants you to keep the house locked during the day. Before you leave I’ll come back and put on the security for the night.”

  If that sounded strange, no one said so, and I left, eager for a mocha latte and a fres
h blueberry scone.

  Intending to accessorize the house with old silver hollowware, I was hot on the trail of sterling silver boxes. After hitting five antiques dealers in a row, I came away with three superb examples and two pair of tall, multi-armed candelabra for the matching sideboards. Nor could I resist a large Canton bowl that had been salvaged from the famous wreck of the Vung Tau. Its cargo, including thousands of porcelain objects, had lain under the South China Sea for three hundred years. The porcelain, amazingly, had survived in perfect condition. Francesco would love telling that story to his dinner guests—if his gruff manner didn’t drive all of Port Royal away. For its provenance alone I’d have been attracted to the bowl, but what really drew me was the subtle blue and white of the design, which would center the dining room table beautifully.

  Flushed with success, I reached into my purse for a celebratory swig of water. My fingers locked on the Cobra. Egads, that’s right, I’m packing. My treasure hunt had caused me to forget about it for a while. But I’d better remember and not run any red lights today.

  In one of the thrifts, I had more luck. I found a nubby beige couch for Nikhil in excellent condition, a steal at three hundred dollars. I snapped it up. For five dollars each I added a few coral and lime green throw pillows. In a dark corner of the back room I spotted some white wicker pieces and two rattan end tables. And had an “aha!” moment at the sight of a glass-topped coffee table the dealer was anxious to unload. Best of all, he agreed to hold on to everything until Nikhil was ready for them.

  My night gloom had all but disappeared. Even with the doors to Deva Dunne Interiors closed for hours, I’d accomplished a good deal today. Maybe things would work out all right after all. Then I thought of Rossi and my glow evaporated like pixie dust. Squaring my shoulders—though that gun didn’t make it easy—I told myself no whining allowed. What had happened with Rossi was my own damned fault.

  On the way back to Rum Row, I stopped in at the shop to collect my mail. The answering machine on the store phone pulsed red. I pressed the message button, and Lee’s voice came through as clear as if she were in the room.

  “Deva, hello, hello, hello! I’m here with Paulo and loving every minute. Sorry I missed y’all. Will call again. Love you and that darling man of yours. Hugs and thanks to you both for all our happiness. Au revoir.”

  I settled the receiver in its cradle and fought back tears. That darling man was no longer mine, and I might as well get used to the fact.

  Huffing out a sigh, I collected the mail and locked up. With protective booties over her shoes, Irma from the Off Shoots Boutique next door stood in her display window fitting a gorgeous purple cocktail dress onto a mannequin. She smiled and waved, beckoning me inside.

  “This one has your name on it,” she said with a grin, stepping down onto the shop floor and slipping off the cotton booties. “Just two came in and one’s in your size. Guaranteed, the lieutenant will love this on you.”

  “You think?” was all I could bring myself to say.

  “Absolutely.” A curvy size-two blonde with a short Cameron Diaz haircut, Irma was a good ad for the resort wear she sold.

  Emma, her twin, a tall brunette who packed a lot of voluptuous woman into her size fourteens, poked her head out of the back room. “Hi, Deva. Irma’s right about that dress. Ten percent off for a friend and neighbor.”

  “You tempting me or something?”

  “Yup.”

  I eyed the dress warily. Purple? And where would I wear something like that? Well, I had promised to attend Chip’s party Saturday night.

  “Okay, let’s try it,” I said, giving in to the moment.

  The three of us crowded into a dressing room. I stripped to my bra and panties and slipped on the dress. The sleeveless silk jersey slid over my body like a caress. “Oh my,” I said staring at my mirror image. “Cleavage City.” The low, rounded neckline gave new meaning to the word plunging. Actually my Bs kind of looked like Ds. Snug at the waist with just a few tiny gathers to give some walking ease to the skirt, the dress fit where it touched, the way a dress should but seldom did.

  With an I-told-you-so smirk, Irma handed me a pair of spiky purple slides in exactly the right size. The girl had an eye.

  As I twisted and turned in front of the mirror, she said, “What did I tell you?” She looked pleased with herself and with the way I looked, apparently.

  “I’ve never worn purple.”

  “Well, high time. Redheads look gorgeous in it.”

  “What about the neckline?”

  “That’s the whole point,” Irma said. “Knock ’em dead.”

  “You have any idea how fabulous that dress is on you?” Emma asked. “Wait till the lieutenant gets a glimpse. The reaction’s going to be intense.”

  “Sold,” I said. Agreeing was easier than arguing.

  “You won’t be sorry,” Irma said.

  Irma could have been wrong about that, but I took the outfit anyway, and left Off Shoots feeling a tad cheerier than when I walked in. At least I could still look sexy even if nothing would come of it.

  On my way over to Rum Row I stopped in at the Publix deli counter and bought a bag of grilled chicken tenders and some mixed salad for dinner. In his desire to have someone babysit his possessions, Francesco had forgotten about his dysfunctional kitchen. No matter. The aroma of the chicken had my stomach growling. I paid for the food and slung the heavy purse over a shoulder. For the first time I couldn’t wait to get back to Rum Row—to eat, and to get that gun out of my bag.

  In the master suite a small portable TV had been set up on a stand at the foot of the mahogany four-poster. Most likely the TV had been Donny’s. The fact that I was sleeping on a bed he had occupied hadn’t make for sweet dreams so far. Neither had Francesco’s warning not to let in any strangers. What strangers? But at least I had my cell phone, my Cobra and my chicken. What else did a girl need? Well, maybe a bottle of wine. I took care of that too.

  *

  After an endless stretch of busy days and restless nights—those owls!—on Friday morning I waited for Tom and his crew to arrive and then left for the day. Two more nights and I’d be out of there. I couldn’t wait.

  Before going to the shop, I swung by Nikhil’s apartment. Love is a wonderful motivator. Distressed by conditions at Harkness or not, he’d already painted the living room and bedroom, cleaned the wall-to-wall carpeting and washed the windows. When I walked in, he was busy sponging apricot-peach paint on the bathroom walls.

  “You’ve made amazing progress,” I told him. “Melanie’s going to love the place. Now we can have the furniture delivered and give you something comfortable to sit on. How’s that sound?”

  “Okay,” he said, forcing a smile, his shoulders slumped.

  He looked so dejected I decided to test the waters. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Nikhil. That conversation you had with the lieutenant last week? How did it go?”

  He hesitated a moment before deciding he could trust me. “He thinks I’ll be subpoenaed to testify against Mr. Harkness.”

  “Did you keep a paper trail?”

  “Yes. I xeroxed everything. The lieutenant took a copy.” Weighed down by what he’d just admitted, he sank onto the rim of the bathtub. “The police are ordering an audit of the Harkness books. On my testimony. If the discrepancies I picked up are accurate, Norm could face a stiff prison sentence. If not, I’m chopped meat.” He went to run a paint-smeared hand through his hair but caught himself in time. “What being a whistleblower will do to my future is up for grabs. As of now, I’m out of a job. Suppose no one will hire me after this? Then what? Worse, what’s Melanie going to think?”

  He stared down at the sodden sponge in his hands, no doubt wishing he held a crystal ball. The sponge had dripped peach latex onto his jeans. I carefully plucked it from his hands with two fingertips, dropped it on the newspaper lining the sink, and turned back to him.

  “No question, Nikhil, compost happens.” It took him a sec
ond, but he did break out a wan smile. “Still I predict your future will open up like a flower. You’re establishing a reputation as an honest, no-nonsense man fearless enough—gutsy enough—to protect his clients’ assets. You’re exactly what an investor wants—not a Madoff, not a Kozlowski, but a man of integrity.

  “Furthermore, if Melanie is the girl for you, you’ll be her knight in shining armor. Her hero. Fearless. A fighter of evil. Every woman wants those qualities in her man.” I pointed a finger at his nose. “Just like in paint colors, you can trust me in that too.”

  His Crayola-blue eyes looked up at me. “That why you like the lieutenant?”

  “Yes!” I shouted without a moment’s hesitation. Then more quietly, “Yes. Also he has a great tush.”

  Nikhil laughed and got up from the tub. “I’d better finish here and start in the kitchen. I want to get this project over with. I have to go job hunting starting tomorrow.” As he stood, his jeans slid down on his hips, and he gave them a hitch.

  His lanky frame looked thinner than it had a week ago. “When did you eat last?” I asked him.

  “Yesterday, I think.”

  “You want to lose all your strength before Melanie gets here?”

  He blushed fever red. “That won’t happen.” He reached for the sponge.

  “Darn right. Put that thing down.”

  He glanced over at me, startled.

  “The project can wait for an hour. I’m inviting you for lunch. My treat. How about steak and eggs? Maybe some fries?”

  He grinned ear-to-ear. “Sounds good.”

  “Then let’s go. While you eat, I’ll talk about what you need to do in the kitchen.” He glanced down at his paint-spotted jeans. “I’m not dressed for a...a—”