The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design)

by Jean Harrington

  Tom stared at her, mouth agape, and lost his grip on the tape measure he’d been extending along one of the walls. It zinged back into its metal holder with a loud whack! No wonder. For forty Kay looked good. For thirty she looked good. Ditto for twenty...well, twenty-five.

  “Kay,” James said, his tone cool with disapproval, “a cover-up?”

  “Hardly necessary, Jimmy. I’m heading for the pool. Ta-ta, everyone.”

  So there was a pool on the property. I glanced outside. The terrace steps led down to a clipped lawn that ended in a carefully pruned boxwood hedge. The pool had to be discreetly hidden behind the hedge.

  Anyway, Kay slipped through the sliders and started down the terrace stairs.

  Carrying Charlotte, James hurried outside. “Careful, darling, those stairs are wet and—”

  Too late. Whether James distracted her, or her ankle twisted, or the stairs really were slippery, Kay lost her balance and tumbled down the length of the stone steps, landing at the bottom with a thud.

  “Here,” James said, dumping Charlotte in my arms and hurrying to Kay, who lay unmoving.

  He knelt beside her. “Darling,” he murmured. “Darling.”

  She had landed on her side, one arm raised in an instinctive gesture to protect her head. At the sound of his voice, she stirred and attempted to sit up while tucking a breast back under the stars. James helped her with both attempts then sat holding her and murmuring into her ear.

  Cradling Charlotte, I called down, “Do you need 9-1-1?”

  Kay shook her head.

  “No,” James replied. “She’s fine. Just needs a minute to rest.”

  I watched them for a while longer until Kay, with James’s help, got to her feet and together they started up the stairs.

  “I’ll make this fast,” Tom said to me quietly. In command of his tape again, he went back to measuring, calculating the amount of materials and man hours he’d need to transform the interior into what I intended to be a showstopper. In this opulent neighborhood, a stunning redo might result in some good word-of-mouth PR, exactly what Deva Dunne Interiors needed. Especially now, with that empty Calista lot waiting for its new house.

  I gave Charlotte’s bow a pat. “How about I put you down?”

  Woof.

  “Is that a yes or a no? Help me out here. I don’t speak your language too well.”

  I bent down and set her on the floor. The instant her paws touched wood, she barked out several woofs in a row and stood on her hind legs. Crisis or no crisis, she needed attention, so I picked her up again. I guess I did understand Maltese speak. Besides, James had enough to deal with at the moment. With Kay in tow, he’d nearly reached the living room sliders.

  Once inside, leaning heavily on his arm, Kay limped over to the sofa and stretched out. Alert but somewhat pale, she appeared shaken by the experience. No wonder, a fall like that could kill a person. She’d been lucky, the only damage appeared to be a rapidly swelling left ankle.

  “Deva,” James said, taking Charlotte from me and looking as pale as Kay. “Would you please go into the kitchen and tell Eileen we need an ice pack?”

  “Of course.” I hurried to the back wing and pushed open the swinging door to a kitchen that could be called retro or mid-twentieth century or just plain shabby. Whatever. It was slated for a redo, but for now I had a more pressing task. I was on an errand of mercy.

  Standing at the sink, as sturdy and reliable as I remembered, Eileen glanced over at me and managed a little smile. “I saw Mrs. Hawkins take that tumble and thought she might be needing this.” She held out an ice pack nestled in a soft white towel. “I wish Mr. Stahlman would do something about those stairs. They’re treacherous.”

  “I’ll mention it to him.” I took the ice pack from her and hurried back to the living room. James tenderly draped it over Kay’s ankle as Tom, looking a little goofy with Charlotte in his arms, tried not to stare at the bikini.

  As soon as Tom’s measurements were complete, we said goodbye and crossed Whiskey Lane to number 595.

  Teresa, in a cheetah-print jumpsuit cinched with a wide black belt, let us in. “Stew...Mr. Stew...is at work,” she said. “He wants you to go ahead and do what you have to do.”

  Good. Without Stew’s heavy presence, the task would go faster, and Tom would only have Teresa’s jumpsuit to interfere with his concentration. It had pow appeal, no doubt about that, but wasn’t in the same league as a flag bikini. After seeing Kay’s effect on staid, solidly married Tom Kruse, well, I was beginning to wonder if James had been right about Stew’s motivation in moving across the street. Maybe he was still in love with Kay and really was running a one-man surveillance operation.

  Anyway, Tom and I went through the house, discussing the parameters of the job and the effect I was looking for.

  “I want the rooms to have personality,” I told him. “Not just be color coordinated.”

  “Right. Personality.” He sent me a glance that said, There you go again, Deva, just like that time with the mango, and calmly wrote down what I asked. In short, Tom was a consummate professional and a joy to work with.

  Teresa followed us as we worked. I guess she was making sure we didn’t steal the family silver, for halfway through she said, “By the way, I told Stew about the teddy you took.”

  “Oh? That’s fine.”

  “Yeah. He said you can keep it.”

  “How sweet. I hope you told him I took it for safekeeping. That I was concerned it might accidentally be sent to Connie Rae’s mother.”

  She shrugged. “No, it never occurred to me to tell him that.”

  Of course it had. She’d deliberately let him think I was a thief. I gave an internal sigh. Well, technically I was. “I’ll explain my reasoning to Mr. Hawkins when I see him.”

  “Good idea.”

  I was relieved that she hadn’t mentioned the notebook. Maybe Stew didn’t care that I took the teddy, but for sure he’d care about the notebook. At the moment, it was in the handbag slung over my shoulder, but I had no intention of relinquishing it before Rossi had a chance to read what it said.

  As Teresa went to walk away, I said, “Do thank Mr. Hawkins for me, but I have no use for the teddy, so I’ll bring it back. It’ll be perfect on you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Okay, I had a brief moment of satisfaction telling Teresa that basically she was a slut. And I’d lied too. She wasn’t getting the teddy. I’d already thrown it in the trash. I was wrong on both counts. Nana Kennedy would be furious if she found out. Though I missed her terribly, maybe it was just as well she had passed away fifteen years ago.

  “Say what you mean,” she’d once told me, “but always be kind. Nasty remarks are not worthy of God’s children. Unless,” she’d added, eyes atwinkle, “you’re pressed to the wall. Then let ’er rip.” She’d held up a warning finger. “Now don’t be goin’ out of your way to find trouble, but when it finds you, stand up for yourself. Remember, you’re a Kennedy.” Well, a Dunne soon to be a Rossi.

  Whatever my name, that exchange with Teresa didn’t make the cut as trouble. Bottom line, I was ashamed of myself and vowed to be extra kind the next time we met. I fretted over it all the way to Fern Alley where a surprise awaited—Rossi. He leaped up from the zebra settee and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Glad you’re back. Though the wait gave me a chance to visit with Lee.” He winked at her. “Don’t tell your husband.”

  “I most certainly will,” she said with mock indignation.

  I laughed, enjoying their banter. As Rossi had said once, Lee was the daughter he’d never had—yet.

  “We have an appointment,” he informed me, checking his watch. “In one hour.”

  “We do?”

  “Uh-huh. I made an executive decision. We’re meeting an architect at the ho
use lot. Harlan Conway, to be exact.”

  “Wonderful! I meant to call him earlier but I—”

  “Got busy. I had a feeling that would happen, so I went ahead. You okay with that?”

  “Love it.” He really wanted this new house, one I would help design and furnish and decorate to my heart’s content, and the knowledge of that swept through me, leaving a warm glow in its wake.

  I turned to Lee, who was listening and smiling at us. I guess in some ways, we were like the parents she no longer had. Leaving her to lock up, we left for Calista Sands. Early for our meeting, we sat companionably in the Mustang waiting for Harlan, enjoying the view.

  Rossi had recovered from his worries of the morning and leaned back in his seat with a sigh of content. “Look at the sky. It’s as blue as the water. And look at those palm trees over there.”

  “They’re beautiful, I agree completely.”

  “And look at—”

  “This.”

  He sat up straight and tore his gaze from the palms to glance over at me. “What’s that?”

  “Connie Rae Hawkins’s journal.”

  “The girl who died?”

  I nodded.

  “What are you doing with it?”

  “I, ah, borrowed it.”

  He frowned. “No euphemisms, Deva. You swiped it.”

  “Temporarily,” I said, my tone all oily. “There’s something in it I think you should see.” Ignoring his disapproval, I opened to the page where Stew learned about Connie Rae’s heart and handed the notebook to him. “Read this.”

  He did, snapped the book closed and gave it back to me. “Poor kid, but what’s your point in showing me this?”

  “Stew Hawkins knew she needed heart surgery.”

  “So?”

  “He told me he never knew she was ill. Not until the coroner’s report.”

  Rossi’s brow knitted together. “Even if you did catch him in a lie, what does that prove? The ME verified the cause of death. The girl succumbed to natural causes.”

  “Stew had a reason for lying, and the reason wasn’t a good one. He was hiding something.”

  Rossi nodded in that infuriating, look-at-all-angles-before-you-leap nod. “Say he did lie, this book proves nothing. Need I remind you no crime has been committed?”

  “What makes you so sure, Rossi? What makes you so sure?”

  He never did get to reply. A sleek black Infiniti pulled onto the lot behind us, and a handsome, blond Viking stepped out from behind the wheel.

  Harlan Conway in the gorgeous flesh. I’d kind of forgotten how beautiful he was, then his opening salvo brought everything back.

  He nodded at us by way of greeting and pointed to Rossi’s beat-up Mustang.

  “Your car?”

  Rossi nodded, his eyes wary.

  “How old is it?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Rossi said. “It can vote. That answer your question?”

  Harlan shrugged. “The neighbors...”

  “What about them?”

  “Oh nothing, I just wondered.”

  Some things, and some people, never change, but before our meeting deteriorated any further, I asked, “What do you think of the lot, Harlan?”

  He glanced around, his keen professional eye not missing a detail. “Narrow. You’ll be limited in what you can build, size-wise, but for something compact, I think it’ll work.”

  “I know it will,” Rossi said, leaving no doubt for argument.

  I couldn’t speak for Harlan, but as for me, I was totally on the same page as Rossi. He wanted a house here so badly I was determined we would make the lot work. And work supremely well.

  “Compact has many meanings, Harlan,” I said, not even attempting to hide the annoyance in my voice. “Let’s discuss that concept before we go any further.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We stood by the Mustang and watched Harlan back his Infiniti off the lot. Rossi’s happy anticipation had dimmed to a scowl. “You sure the guy’s as good as you thought?”

  Deflated, too, by Harlan’s supercilious airs, I nodded grudgingly. “Check out his website. He’s posted some awesome projects. You’ll see. He does brilliant work.”

  “I’ve already checked out the site,” Rossi said. “That’s why I called him. But he’s a pain in the butt to deal with.” He peered at me. “Is having him design a house worth putting up with his attitude?”

  “Yes and yes. Let me put it this way...did a producer ever fire Marilyn Monroe for being difficult?”

  Rossi’s lips curled up. “As an analogy that one has flaws. She was fired from her last film, just before her death. But I get your drift. Okay, you’re the designer; I’ll bow to your wisdom in this. With one caveat. Conway deals with the designer, not the detective.”

  “Done. I’ll shake on that. But you could help me out with a list of what you want in the house, and what you don’t want. Kind of a guide.”

  “I want you in the house, and I don’t want to live in it without you.”

  That was even more beautiful than the view. Disregarding any neighbors who might be looking, I flung my arms around him and kissed him until we were both breathless. Finally, reluctantly, we pulled apart. “What do you say we get back in the car?” Rossi said.

  “Your legs are wobbly, huh?”

  He laughed. “So’s my reputation in the ‘hood.’”

  We settled onto the Mustang’s front seat and watched the orange sun sink slowly into the horizon. When the light show ended, I said, “Seriously, Rossi, I really do need to know your preferences. What you like in colors and furnishings and that kind of thing.”

  He shook his head. “You know my house in Countryside is Beige City. I have no preferences.”

  “None?”

  “Well, one. A king-sized bed and dark shades for when we want to sleep late. Maybe one of those thick covers. The kind that’s full of feathers.”

  “A duvet?”

  “That’s it, and extra pillows.” He smiled a dreamy smile. “A little radio for night music would be nice.”

  “How about a central sound system instead?”

  His eyes brightened. “That would be great. But only if the controls are on my side of the bed so I can turn it down. And up.” He grinned wickedly.

  “I’ll be certain to include every one of those ideas. What about the kitchen?”

  “I want one.”

  “How many baths?”

  “One a day. Sometimes two.”

  “All right, you win. I give up. Let’s go home to Surfside and have something to eat.”

  “Umm.”

  Rossi plainly hadn’t given up, and though I wasn’t overly concerned about the neighbors, nor was he—at least not in the same sense Harlan seemed to be—I figured we needed to do our teenage necking behind closed doors. That was fine with Rossi too.

  The next morning he’d already gone for the day and I was about to leave for work when the Tony’s Tiles truck cruised onto the Surfside parking lot and stopped outside my front windows. Mike Hammerjack sat behind the wheel, staring at my door, no doubt checking out the address.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  He parked and jumped out of the truck dressed for God knew what in shit kickers, tight cutoffs and a black muscle shirt. Not exactly a flag bikini, but a head-swiveler, nonetheless, especially with those tattooed pecs of his.

  Now what? Pretend I wasn’t home, or answer the bell and let him in? Neither choice was a viable option. I had to get to work, and I didn’t want him in my home. Bottom line, I didn’t trust him. He’d let Tony’s python loose, hadn’t he? And though I tried to keep an open mind, he was a paroled felon.

  He wasted no time strutting toward my condo, and I wasted no time grabb
ing my bag, dashing outside and locking the door behind me.

  “Well, there you are,” he said, smiling as he approached. “I wasn’t sure I had the right place.”

  “You don’t. How did you get my home address?”

  My cool welcome didn’t faze him a bit. “A man has his ways,” he said, shrugging off my question. “Tony’s over at Jake’s Diner having breakfast, so I thought I’d stop by and show you some more of the Help-a-Con furniture. I’ve got a desk in the truck and a couple of chairs.” His brows came together. “You already saw one of the tables.”

  Had I? All I remembered was the snakes.

  While I wasn’t happy to see Mike at my doorstep, I did need to take a good, hard look at the prison-made pieces before ordering any for my clients. So I followed him over to the pickup without any further protest.

  Before he unlocked the back panel doors, I said, “Any surprises in there today?”

  A grin cracked his face wide open.

  Oh? Scaring me with a truck full of snakes had been funny, had it? Fuming that he might have set me up that day, I examined the furniture in silence. But I soon got over my snit. The cons had done a marvelous job. The joints on each chair fit smoothly, the mitered desk drawers slid in and out without a single squeak, and best of all, I loved the finishes. No high shine, no glare, just a nice polished effect.

  “They’re terrific,” I said. “If everything is this good, I’ll definitely place an order.”

  “Now?”

  I shook my head. “The answer to that is no.”

  “Too bad. I got a message from one of the boys. They’ve been wondering. They don’t like waiting. They wait enough, you know what I mean?”

  The hot summer air, heavy with sea salt and humidity, did nothing to cool my irritation and a lot to frizz my hair. Steaming hot and getting hotter by the minute, I lost it and threw caution to the winds.