Designed for Death (15 page)

“What weird phone call?”

One hand on a screwdriver, the other on a chisel, he paused to catch his breath. “Marilyn says you didn’t have any meeting planned for yesterday. So why’d you call and say you did? Then tell her Simon was with you?”

So she was speaking to him again. And then some? Hard to tell. He looked a little baggy-eyed, but these days who didn’t?

“I’m just following orders,” I told him.

“What’s that mean?” Hands on hips, Dick wanted answers.

“Lieutenant Rossi said everyone’s a suspect. I tried to leave a trail. You know, in case…”

“You got offed?”

“Something like that.”

“Jeez, Deva, that’s weird. Simon’s straight as an arrow.”

In no mood to take advice from Dick, the Advisor to Heads of State, I said, “Is that right? Well, for your information, there’s straight and then there’s homophobic.”

He shrugged. “All I know is he didn’t like you going to the Foxy Lady.”

“He told you that?”

“We talked. I agreed with him. And Chip’s none too happy you dragged AudreyAnn along, either.” Dick gave his tool belt a hitch. “You might as well know I don’t want Marilyn out there. Ever. It’s no place for a woman.”

The nerve of him. Dick the Lothario. Dick the Lover. Dick the Louse telling me how to behave. Not in this lifetime. I upped my chin at him. “What
is
a good place for a woman, Dick? Your bed?”

“Now just a New York minute.” Under his tan, his face took on the hue of an overripe tomato.

Disgusted, I turned away. And whirled right back when he grabbed my arm. His grip hurt like hell.

“I didn’t like that crack, Deva.”

I tried to yank free, but he wouldn’t let go. One more second in that finger lock and my knee would come up. Right where it would do the most good.

But his grip loosened, and I stepped back.

“You’re correct about one thing, Dick. Your personal life is none of my business.” I moved farther away. “And what I do is none of yours. As long as we both remember that, we’ll remodel the units together, but after they’re finished, who knows?”

“Don’t go taking that attitude.”

I had a death grip on my purse and had to force myself not to slam it into his macho face. He had hurt my arm. Had he hurt Treasure, too? I still wanted to kick him in the groin, but he’d likely retaliate, the ass. Self-preservation told me not to put him to the test.

More upset than I had been in days, I stomped off. Who did these guys think they were, dictating right and wrong to me? I was an adult, an independent woman. I glanced over at guest parking. Sleek as a panther, the shiny black Ferrari was still sitting there for all the world to see. I jumped into my dusty Audi, slammed the door and revved the engine. Not a man I knew could be trusted. God, I missed Jack.

Despite what everybody thought, going to the Lady hadn’t been a fool’s errand. I’d learned about Fayette’s assault and the truth about Treasure. Poor, pathetic, warmhearted Treasure. She must have been a desperately unhappy man. I hoped with all my heart she’d found happiness as a woman.

No, going to the Lady hadn’t been foolish. A threat had been issued, one I was convinced involved me. I couldn’t believe the warning was mere coincidence. If I didn’t hear back from Rossi soon, I’d call on the Collier County Sheriff’s Office and tell my story to someone else in the department. Upstage Rossi. Go over his head. He’d hate that. Serve him right.

Heavy-duty humidity hung in the air like wet laundry. But except for a few watery patches, the roads were dry, the sun as bright as if we’d never had a visit from Tropical Storm Bob. With little traffic along Gulf Shore Boulevard, I reached Tamiami Trail in no time and headed south into town.

At Ace Hardware, I chose some paint samples for Simon’s kitchen then spent an hour at Floors Galore matching the paint chips to some tiles I thought would work. After that, I hit the Tuesday Morning Shop. Maybe I’d find a few accessories to add color to Treasure’s monochrome scheme. In a way, I hated to. I liked the cool sophistication of her place. Too bad, Dick the Prick did not.

Traffic surged along at ten miles over the speed limit. Up ahead on the left, Whittier’s Showroom, Naples’s premiere interior design store, thrust its hot pink profile against the sky. Obeying a sudden impulse, I swung off the highway and drove to a shady spot at the rear of the store’s parking lot. Maybe they could use another designer.

With a fulltime job, I could sell my Surfside condo, buy another one and get away from everybody who was giving me a hard time. And kiss or no kiss, that included Simon.

But as I stomped toward the door, reality set in. True, I needed a job. I could use the money, the mental stimulation, the company of other designers. My jaw tightened. But I wouldn’t leave Surfside until I was damned good and ready. And that might be never. One thing I’d learned since the murder was that a change of location didn’t make your troubles go away.

Whittier’s glass door closed behind me with an elegant
swish.
I took off my sunglasses and got the design shock of my life. Everything was
huge.
I had stepped into an ocean of massive sofas and chairs, Vatican-sized dining rooms, lamps big enough to top a lighthouse, and everywhere, on every flat surface, floral arrangements enormous enough for a Mafia don’s funeral.

A chic blonde took one of my Boston business cards, and while I waited for the head designer, I checked the tags on some of the merchandise. The prices were astronomical, way beyond the reach of the average household. After twenty minutes of sticker shock, I was about to leave when a tall middle-aged woman approached, her smile as austere as her chignon.

“Devalera Dunne?” She offered me her French-manicured fingers as if they were a gift.

“Yes.” I smiled and shook her hand.

Gripping a clipboard to her narrow chest, she said, “I’m Meredith Arcane.” She wore a sleeveless black shift that touched the top of her chunky-heeled pumps. A sapling’s worth of wooden beads wrapped her throat. “Do have a seat,” she ordered.

We sank, simultaneously, into two down-filled chairs in beige suede, the cushions so deep I thought we’d both disappear.

“As you can see—” she waved a hand at the oversized furnishings, “—we deal with a very high-end clientele. People with large residences.” Her glance skimmed over my taupe suit, another Boston keeper, a good fit but not exceptional, my Jimmy Choos (again), and my plain gold wedding band. She frowned. “Your card states you’re ASID.” For anyone not in the business, that’s an acronym for American Society of Interior Designers. She studied my card again. “You worked at Payne’s in Boston.”

“For four years.”

She tapped the card against a thumbnail. “How much, in dollars, did your average client spend in a year?”

“It fluctuated wildly.”

“Oh? Didn’t you keep records?”

“Not the annual amount spent per client.”

“A major error. At Whittier’s, we keep impeccable sales records. How else can you know which clients to cultivate?”

“I see.” And I did, loud and clear, all the while telling myself interior design was a business, not a religious vocation. Designers had to eat, pay mortgages, fill their gas tanks. Still… “You deal exclusively with a wealthy clientele?”

“Not exclusively. We have a few middle-class clients.” Mrs. Arcane’s brow furrowed as she tried to recall one. “Just last week, a man from a local condo building purchased a pink velour chaise. An
outré
choice, but he loved it.” She glanced at my card again. “Do you live here in Naples?”

“Yes, at the Surfside Condominiums on Gulf Shore Boulevard.”

“Surfside. Surfside.” She fingered her beads thoughtfully. “That sounds familiar. Ah, yes.” She let the beads clunk against her throat. “That’s where we shipped that pink velour chaise.”

“Oh? I know everyone at Surfside, so I must know your client.” Hoping Mrs. Arcane would volunteer a name, or offer a description, I let a little silence hover between us, but all she said was, “A client’s identity is privileged information. You must know that, Mrs…ah…Dunne.”

I did, but I was curious. A pink chaise would be an anomaly in every condo in the building. “You’re sure it was Surfside?”

“Of course. I never forget a client’s address. However insignificant the purchase.”

That did it. I knew right then our design philosophies differed radically. The woman was a professional snob. Really good designers didn’t fall into that trap. They recognized that while money drove the industry, and high-end purchases kept a business in the black, any commission, large or small, deserved consideration. Not only was that the courteous approach, it was good business practice. For who knew? A minor client today might become a major player in the future.

Anyway, I’d never want to work at Whittier’s and decided to seal my fate. Leaning forward—no mean feat on all that down—I lowered my voice to a whisper. “You mentioned Surfside. You’re not thinking about the murder, are you?”

“The
what?
” She clutched the clipboard to her chest as if it were a bulletproof vest.

“A woman was killed there a few days ago. Strangled. I found her. It’s been in all the papers. She was lying in the bathtub. Naked.” I glanced left and right, then leaned in even closer. “She had a fabulous body. The police still haven’t caught the murderer. But a homicide detective is working on the case day and night. He’s a ferret, that man. A ferret. He’ll find the monster who did it. No matter how long it takes.”

Her jaw sagging, Mrs. Arcane propelled herself to her feet, losing her grip on the clipboard. It clattered onto the marble floor, shattering the showroom’s hushed, churchy silence. I enjoyed the sudden burst of noise. After all, this wasn’t a cathedral.

We parted saying we’d keep in touch. She’d call me as soon as Whittier’s had an opening. I’d keep checking back to inquire. We both lied.

Furious, I wove my way through the silk jungle, the Tuscan mirrors, the Papa Bear beds, knowing I’d never step foot in the place again. The woman hadn’t asked about my education, my background, my portfolio, my design philosophy. Nothing. All she’d emphasized was money, money, money.

I yanked open the front door. An idea that had been stirring in my brain for several years bubbled up out of my subconscious and burst into the bright Florida daylight.

Why had I come all the way from Boston to Naples? To sell the most expensive case goods I could find? No. To put some meaning into a life that had become too painful to endure. Ready for the next challenge, I fairly flew all the way back to my car. I’d open my own business, make my own decisions, take charge of my life. And create a little happiness at the same time. Help people design tasteful homes that didn’t require a fortune in outlay. It could be done and be profitable, too. I was convinced of it.
Just like you always said, Jack. Reach for the brass ring. Go for it. At last—

I was so intent on my future, I didn’t see him coming.

“Hey, lady, what’s the rush?”

After the cool recesses of Chez Whittier, the brilliant sun had me half-blinded, but that gravely voice could only belong to one man. I careened to a stop.

“Rossi! Of all people.”

He, too, checked out my suit and the Jimmys, but at least he didn’t frown. “Looking sharp, Mrs. D.”

“Thanks, but what brings you here? You following me?”

I caught a flash of his square white teeth. “Not a bad idea, but no, nothing like that. I need a lamp for my lounge chair. It’s either that or use Braille on the
Naples Daily.
” He peered at me from under those hooded lids of his. “You look kind of excited. What’s up?”

“You don’t miss a thing, do you, Rossi?”

“Only the sports page now and then.”

I wasn’t about to be distracted. “Have you seen Fayette yet?”

“I spoke to him, yes.”

“Did he say anything about a widow?”

Rossi rolled his eyes and looked past me, somewhere over my left shoulder. Both signs he didn’t like my questions. Too freakin’ bad.

“You can be confident the case is being thoroughly investigated, Mrs. D.”

“That’s a canned answer, and you know it.”

“You have to keep the faith. And lock your doors.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve only got a half hour.” He upped a thumb at the showroom’s glass portals. “Want to help me pick out a lamp?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, but I’m late for an appointment,” I lied. “And you know something else?”

“What?” His eyes widened. He hated giving out information, but he sure loved getting it. A maddening trait.

“I’m opening my own business.”

At my announcement, his eyes took on a shine I hadn’t seen in them before. Admiration? Who knew? He shrugged and cocked his head. “I’d buy my lamp from you, but I can’t wait that long to read the sports page. The football season’ll be over by then.”

I pinned him with an icicle stare. “I’m serious. Deva Dunne Interiors. Designs to Die For. How does that sound?” Before he could answer, I added, “Yup, my mind’s made up. I’m opening my own business. Providing, of course, I don’t get murdered in the meantime.”

Chapter Sixteen

With brand-new plans for the future flooding my mind, I was halfway home before an odd thought hit me. Why hadn’t Rossi asked his girlfriend to help him choose a lamp? Another mystery, but one I needn’t trouble myself over.

At Surfside, Cynthia Yaeger’s Ferrari had disappeared from guest parking. A lipstick-red Camaro sat in its place.

I pulled into the carport and glanced in the rearview mirror. A super tall brunette wearing a yellow chiffon dress and crazy four-inch leopard-skin spikes climbed out of the open convertible and clomped toward me.

Ah, not Fayette today.
Faye.

When I exited the Audi, she seized me in a bear hug that took my breath away.

“I’ve been dying to tell you the good news,” she said as I made a mental note to tell
her
to buy a softer padded bra.

“I’m all ears.” And bruised ribs.

“Treasure’s going up in a balloon.”

“She’s what?”

“Isn’t that divine? I wanted you to be the first to know. You loved her, too.”