Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

by Jean Harrington

  “Stay,” I yelled. “Another step and you’re a dead man.”

  Hands clenching and unclenching, face purple, Francesco stopped inches from Serge. He gathered his saliva, took careful aim and let go right in his face. “Bastardo!”

  With his good arm, Serge swiped a sleeve across his cheek. “That goes in the book. Next to the numbers. You’re a walking corpse.”

  “Speaking of corpses, Francesco,” I said, “where did you get the cyanide? From Norm?”

  Francesco blew out a lungful of sheer disgust. “Norm? I didn’t get nothing from Norm. Not even good advice. I got my own sources. Norm ain’t one of them.” His glance swept the room, landing finally on the gun lying in a corner.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “Jewels, get the gun. Hurry.”

  She jumped up and ran for the Glock. Poking a single finger into the trigger, she carried the gun back to me upside down and held it out. I took it and said, “Now get the phone. Call the police.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Without a warning, there he suddenly stood, legs apart, gun drawn like a Deadwood sheriff. At the sound of his voice, a tidal wave of relief surged through me. I’d been scared stiff and hadn’t even known it.

  “Rossi. Thank God.” My arms, unused to being held rigid at shoulder height, had tired. I gladly lowered both guns. “How did you know where I was?”

  “That can wait. But I’m glad to see you’re so well armed.” His voice was bantering, his eyes smoldering. Which I took to mean he wasn’t happy at finding me here, but would be damned if he’d let on right now. Later, he’d let on later. I heaved a sigh, the relief mingling with resignation.

  In the distance, roaring closer by the instant, police sirens shattered the velvet quiet of Rum Row. Blue cruiser lights flashed onto the driveway and car doors slammed.

  “I need a doctor,” Vito said.

  “Me, too,” Serge echoed.

  “We’ll see that you’re both treated,” Rossi said. “Now can somebody tell me what happened here?”

  Francesco pointed a finger at me. “She shot them. For no reason. She’s crazy. Right, Jewels? Right, Joey?”

  Obviously a company man, Joey gave him a scared little nod. Great.

  But Jewels was no company man. “My husband,” she hissed out the word, “is a killer. He poisoned his cousin Donny. With cyanide.”

  “She’s making that up,” Francesco protested. “The poison was in my shrimp. Not Donny’s. Who knew he’d scarf it all down?”

  “You did, Frannie. You knew that was his favorite. He always went for the shrimp first. Couldn’t get enough of it. You knew he’d go out to the kitchen and grab yours before anyone else did.” She paused for a second to brush away the tears streaming down her face. “You knew that. And you sat eating salami and listening to Puccini while he died. I swear if I ever hear Puccini again I’ll vomit.” Her voice cracking with outrage, Jewels stepped closer to her husband and thrust her wet face close to his. “You know something else? I’m glad he—” she pointed a shaky finger at Serge, “—shot that desk. I’ve always hated it.”

  Francesco snorted. “No comments allowed. You got no taste. No class either.”

  “That’s enough.” Joey grasped a handful of Jewels’s skirt and tugged her back out of danger. Though regret at losing what Francesco could do for him was plastered over his sexy, tango-dancer face, he finally found the guts to come to his sister’s defense. Blood kin must have meant more than money to him after all. “My sister’s telling the truth,” he said to Rossi. “I heard him confess.”

  Francesco shrugged, a nonchalant, I-don’t-give-a-damn shrug. Like a bully in a schoolyard he challenged, “Prove it. Prove I stiffed Donny. It’s your word against mine.”

  “And mine,” I added. I glanced over at the two patients who were slumped on the floor. “They heard you too.”

  “I was lying,” Francisco said, jerking a thumb at Vito and Serge. “I knew they were packing. They had me scared. A guy’ll say anything when he’s scared.”

  Quietly, their guns drawn, two police officers entered the room. With a quick nod, Rossi indicated Francesco and told the first cop who strode into the room, my old friend Officer Batano, “Cuff him then read him his rights. And we need an ambulance.” Batano’s partner, petite Officer Hughes, hit the phone.

  As Batano and Hughes sprang into action, Rossi lowered his gun and glanced around the living room. “Why are there no chairs in here?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Later, back at my condo, with the sun already shooting fingers of light into the horizon, Rossi settled into a club chair. The emerging rays played off his face, emphasizing its cragginess and the fatigue he wasn’t about to give in to. He removed his notebook and pencil stub from his shirt pocket and flipped the pad to a blank page.

  “All right, let’s hear it,” he said. “Start at the beginning. Take your time. Don’t leave anything out.”

  I squirmed uneasily on the sofa. Facing an annoyed Rossi made me more than a little uncomfortable. Besides, all I wanted to do was take a shower and go to bed, not relive a crime. Staying awake for twenty-four hours challenged my system in ways it wasn’t used to. Worse, tired-eyed, but otherwise looking like he could go another twenty-four without any trouble, Rossi had no intention of letting up until I told him everything I knew. But first I had a question of my own.

  “How did you know I was in the Rum Row house?”

  “I didn’t. Cookie Harkness was out walking her dog and spotted two men entering the Grandese garage. She called the police. Luckily Batano was on duty and recognized the address. He notified me immediately. I’m glad he did, though I damn near dropped my weapon when I saw you there. I thought you were home in bed safe and warm.”

  His update over, he sat with his brow furrowed, pencil poised relentlessly on the top line of the pad.

  “Cookie helped out, hmm? Funny, there for a while I thought she might have been the culprit,” I said.

  “That so?” His expression, not to mention his tone of voice, telegraphed annoyance, but I ignored it and continued. Having this over with would be the fastest way to get some sleep.

  “Years ago, she had access to cyanide and could conceivably have gotten hold of some. It seemed logical that she might have tried to kill Francesco in the hope of wiping out Norm’s gambling debt at the same time. But if that had been her intent, when Francesco didn’t eat the poisoned shrimp, she would have raced into the kitchen and made sure no one else did. She might be a snob, but she’s not a monster.

  “So my interest shifted to Norm. After all, he was the one Francesco was putting the squeeze on. Then Nikhil Jamison told me Norm had been cooking the company books, and I realized he had a gambling addiction. Also he’d persuaded Nikhil to bring him cyanide to kill the critters in his attic. Or so he said. At that point I was pretty sure he was the murderer. Of the wrong man, of course.”

  “Of course.” Rossi did sarcasm well, but I didn’t bother to challenge him on it. Too time consuming. I’d save my protests for another day. After I got some sleep.

  “Earlier though, AudreyAnn had me worried. Chip too. After all, they were in the kitchen when Donny died and had plenty of opportunity.” Not for the first time that night, I shook my head at my own stupidity. “But neither one had a strong enough motive. At the time of the poisoning, Chip didn’t know Donny and AudreyAnn had been living together. Then—after Donny’s death—he found out and tried to kill himself, not somebody else. At that point the finger of suspicion swung back to AudreyAnn...but when Chip nearly died, she admitted Donny had been a mistake. She had been glad to leave him and get back to Chip. Seeing how distraught she was, I believed her. There wasn’t enough hatred in her heart to do the dirty deed.”

  “Anything else?” Rossi lowered the foot he’d slung across his knee and shifted in his chair, pencil stub still at the ready. I had a sinking feeling he could last several more hours.

  “That only left Bonita, poor Tomas’s widow. She w
as the X factor in all of this. The one I knew the least about. But with all those other hot leads, I put her on the back burner until the day she showed up on Francesco’s doorstep with that toy truck and the threatening note. She might not have known about the hidden money, but she certainly knew about the propane explosion. So what that was all about, I couldn’t fathom. Do you know?”

  “Are you asking for my opinion?”

  “Always. You’re the pro. So what was that about?”

  “Vito playing a head game with Grandese. Nothing more. The two boys had a job to do. Convince Grandese to either pull out of the casino business or to leave the state. Threatening his son was one way to accomplish that.”

  “So Bonita was just Vito’s innocent messenger?”

  “Correct.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing I took her off my suspect list.”

  “Your list?” Rossi lowered the notepad and stared at me in disbelief as if nobody he knew had ever made up a list.

  “Yes. After all, Rossi, even though a person is sweet and mild, you can’t be sure of what’s in their mind.”

  “Is that right?”

  I could have made icicles from the tone of his voice. No wonder. My amateur theories were outrageous, and I knew it. While I had speculated about what had happened, Rossi, the forensic specialist, had investigated with the aid of an entire police department. But ever the good listener, he let me continue without serious interrupting—just the few jibes—and if he realized I was toying with him he didn’t let on.

  Sometimes, like now, it was hard to know what he was thinking. For sure he was a puzzle, and I would never have all the pieces to him. Maybe that was part of his allure, a man of enduring mystery. And fabulous pecs.

  I slid along the couch and rested my head on the padded arm, signaling that I needed to sleep.

  But Rossi was a bulldog after a juicy bone. “What else?”

  More. He wanted more. I heaved a sigh to let him know this wasn’t easy and soldiered on, either that or be here until high noon. “When Francesco and Jewels went to Rhode Island for Donny’s funeral, Francesco asked me to house sit. He knew I valued his antiques...the Townsend alone is worth millions. Even with the damage, it probably still is. He wanted someone on the property to keep an eye on things.”

  Rossi snorted. Not a pretty sound. “Why didn’t you suggest he hire a security guard?”

  “Well, he already had the most expensive alarm system money could buy. It’s state of the art, so I thought that was enough security. For the house and for me. Someone had to be there to let in the workmen each morning, and he knew I’d be coming and going anyway, purchasing things for the rooms. Besides I love his antiques as much as he does, and that made him feel good about leaving them.”

  Rossi shifted in his seat and frowned. Excellent. Fanny fatigue at last.

  “Was making Grandese feel good a priority of yours?” he asked.

  Despite the buzzing in my head, I bolted upright. Was Rossi jealous? I loved the possibility but didn’t let on that I even suspected it. I could be cool too when I had to.

  “For your information, Lieutenant, a big part of an interior designer’s job is to make her clients happy. I always strive for that. If sleeping in Francesco’s house for a few nights—”

  “A week.”

  “—cemented our relationship—our business relationship—I was willing to do so.” I waved a finger in the air. “Write that down too.” I slid along the sofa cushions again and closed my eyes. The inquisition had gone on long enough.

  “Deva.”

  I didn’t even peek at him.

  “Deva. Do you know you are a brave and wonderful woman?”

  My eyes snapped open. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. And stretched out on that couch, you make me realize all over again what sensational legs you have.”

  I arched an instep and glanced down at my calf. “Sensational, huh? Rossi, are you easily impressed?”

  His gaze sweeping over me was like a long, breathless caress. “With you, yes. I’m always impressed with you.”

  “Thank you.” I lowered my lids again. Actually they refused to stay open.

  “There’s more.”

  “More?” I forced my lids apart so as to enjoy the full effect of his next compliment.

  “Yes, I’d like to wring your neck.”

  I winced.

  “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to...a figure of speech.”

  Just a year ago, my friend and client, Treasure Kozlowski, had been strangled. To mention neck wringing, Rossi must be more tired than he let on.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I’m sorry. But the fact is your involvement with Grandese placed you in danger. I warned you about him, but you wouldn’t listen. Are you always going to act like that?”

  I nodded. “Probably. You want a floor mat, date a floor mat.” I swung my legs over the edge of the sofa. “What you’re forgetting is that I helped you solve a murder.” I put my hands on my hips. “Say something about that, why don’t you?”

  “When I file my formal report, you’ll be given full credit for your role in the case.”

  Mollified, I nodded though truthfully as long as I had been a help to Rossi, I didn’t care about getting credit from anybody else. I had other, more immediate concerns. For openers, my biggest client was in the slammer. Though with Rossi’s warnings echoing in my ears, whenever I’d placed an order for the Rum Row house, I covered the cost with Francesco’s retainer. So I wouldn’t have outstanding bills. Nevertheless Deva Dunne Interiors wouldn’t profit from dealing with Mr. Grandese after all. Nor did I want to, knowing Jewels had two babies to raise alone. On the plus side, Francesco’s collection of museum quality furniture was worth millions.

  “Jewels will be able to keep the furniture, won’t she?” I asked Rossi.

  He nodded. “Under Florida law, she keeps her home, no matter what happens to her husband.”

  “Good. What’s in that house will yield enough to support a dozen children. And I hope Chip gets to keep the money he found at La Cucina.”

  “I agree. So far no one has staked a claim. A few more days and the money should be his.”

  “Unless Francesco decides to go after it.”

  “He’ll be fighting for his life. I doubt he’ll want to tangle with any other lawsuits. But if he does go down that rocky path, I fully intend to testify on Chip’s behalf.”

  That made me feel a little bit better, but not completely. I liked Francesco, his outrageousness, his wit, his enthusiasm. Killing his cousin in cold blood didn’t seem to fit the person I knew, or thought I knew. Which told me I had a lot to learn about criminal behavior. More than I would ever master. My being in the house when the two thugs arrived and blew the lid off Francesco’s cover was sheer, dumb luck, not detective work. Rossi had every right to be annoyed. Okay, angry.

  “What’s going to happen to Serge and Vito?”

  “The two goons? They’re being charged with breaking and entering. Possession without a license.”

  “That’s it?”

  “To get the charges lowered, they’ve agreed to testify against Grandese. They’ll be singing like birds. Even misdemeanors on rap sheets like theirs will send them up for a long stretch. So with their testimony and yours, and that of Jewels and her brother, it’s doubtful Grandese can wiggle out of this one.”

  “Norm can’t wiggle out of his lawsuit either. Not with what Nikhil discovered.”

  “True.” Rossi reached into his shirt pocket. “And you can’t wiggle out of this.”

  “Out of what?”

  With the same two fingers he used to extract his notebook and pencil, he removed a white envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  He smiled a Cheshire cat smile, like he knew something I didn’t, which most of the time was exactly the case. “You’ll have to open it to find out.”

  With my pulse revving up, I slid a finger under the flap. Th
is wasn’t going to be an electric bill or a cancelled movie stub, so what could it be?

  “Before I look, give me a hint, Rossi.”

  “Let me put it this way, there’s a lei in your future.”

  “A lay?”

  Without waiting another instant, I reached into the envelope and pulled out two airline tickets.

  “Oh, Rossi,” I said leaping off the couch and flinging myself on him. “Aloha!”

  *

  Help interior designer Deva Dunne solve more edge-of-your-seat mysteries in Jean Harrington’s Murders by Design series, available now!

  Designed for Death

  Interior designer Deva Dunne’s latest project comes to a screeching halt when blood on the carpet leads her to the body of her client, an exotic dancer with a mysterious past. But the murdered woman is not the only resident of the posh beachfront condominium with secrets, and investigating officer Lieutenant Victor Rossi considers them all suspects.

  The Monet Murders

  Interior decorator Deva Dunne never dreamed she’d see a Monet hanging on someone’s dining room wall. Then she snags a client with two Monet seascapes. Her thrill lasts until she finds one of the paintings missing, cut from its frame, and the cook shot dead…

  Connect with us for info on our new releases, access

  to exclusive offers and much more!

  Visit CarinaPress.com

  We like you—why not like us on Facebook:

  Facebook.com/CarinaPress

  Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/CarinaPress

  About the Author

  Jean Harrington lives in Naples, Florida, with her husband, John. No cat, no dog, no children anymore. After seventeen years of teaching English lit at Becker College in Worcester, Massachusetts, she now spends her days writing the Murders by Design mystery series and having great fun wallowing knee-deep in fictional dead bodies.