Diva 03 _ Diva Paints the Town, The (8 page)

Read Diva 03 _ Diva Paints the Town, The Online

Authors: Krista Davis

Tags: #Murder, #Winston; Sophie (Fictitious Character), #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #General, #Dwellings

BOOK: Diva 03 _ Diva Paints the Town, The
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“That can’t be. He was in the window seat. Really he was. There must be . . .” I’d intended to say “blood,” but the box didn’t even show a pink smear.
Tara pulled out a pen and notepad. “You know, we don’t take kindly to this kind of prank. Your name?”
“Sophie Winston.”
She snapped her notebook shut. “That explains everything. You have quite the reputation. I’m going to file a report on this incident, and I’m giving you an official warning. The police department does not tolerate false reports. You’re going to end up in big trouble inventing dead bodies. Am I clear?”
“But, Kurt looked so—dead.” Tara continued to lecture and warn me, but I tuned her out because I knew what I had seen. Was it possible that Kurt wasn’t dead after all? Had he leaped from the box when I left Mordecai’s house? Had someone intended to play a prank on me? Or on Nina? Had Kurt wanted to punish Nina by giving her a good scare?
“Are you listening? I’m going to tell Wolf about this.”
“Good idea. Maybe he can figure it out.”
Her head tilted to the side, and a crease formed between her eyes. “You’re not very bright, are you? You’re in trouble.”
She was the one who didn’t get it. Something was definitely wrong. I didn’t think I should argue with her, though. No matter what I said, she clearly wasn’t going to believe me. And why should she? I’d sounded like a blithering idiot, and there wasn’t even any blood. “I’m sorry. I’m not making anything up.” I did
not
like the way she was scowling at me. “I guess Kurt meant to play a trick on me. Not very funny.”
She eyed me critically, and for no good reason, I was suddenly self-conscious about the oversized sweatshirt and my dusty jeans. I turned away from her intrusive scrutiny. Now that a cop was there with me, the house didn’t seem so scary. Could Kurt be hiding somewhere, laughing his not-at-all-funny head off ? I wanted to take a look around, but I’d already lost a lot of time, and I had to get to work.
I collected my cleaning equipment, but realized we would need it when we tackled the family room and decided to leave everything at Mordecai’s.
Tara walked out onto the front porch with me, and made a point of gazing up and down the street, as though looking for something. Apparently satisfied, she bounded down the steps to her car.
I heard rattling, and found Nina shaking dry cat food into a bowl next to the front steps. “Where have you been?”
She looked up at me with the haggard face of a person who hadn’t slept all night. “There’s this—” She stopped abruptly and watched Tara get into the squad car. Nina’s icy fingers gripped my arm. “What happened? Is it Kurt?”
I filled her in while we crossed the street to my house. Her expression fluctuated between horror and anger. “I saw the window seat last night when Kurt and I went back to look for the dog. Kurt joked about it and said if they’d tapered one end, it would look like the old-fashioned pine caskets they used in the wild west.”
Nina didn’t cook, but I was certain she was capable of boiling water, so I left her in the kitchen to make tea while I dashed upstairs to shower and change for work. She brought a mug of steaming brew to me and sat on my bed while I dressed.
“He really looked dead?” she asked with fear in her voice.
“I’m afraid so.” He had. Though I wanted to think he’d used poor judgment and played a very ugly prank, it bothered me that he’d appeared lifeless.
I didn’t have time for makeup or curls. Taking the fast and easy road, I pulled my hair back with a big banana clip.
Nina looked out the window, but I didn’t think she was seeing the view. “What if he heard me come back last night, thought I had a key, and hid in the box to scare me?”
“I hardly think he would have waited in the box until this morning.”
She turned around, her face grim. “What if he suffocated?”
“Now you’re reaching.”
“He was woozy from hitting his head, passed out or fell asleep, and suffocated. Dear heaven, I bet that’s exactly what happened.”
I clipped on earrings and said, “There’s just one problem with that scenario—if he suffocated, why wasn’t he in the box when the cop came?”
“That’s right!” Nina followed me downstairs. “That skunk! I bet he was trying to pull a fast one on me. And to think I lost sleep over him last night.”
“What were you doing there this morning anyway?”
“An orange and white momma cat who just had kittens has been coming around, and I’ve been trying to figure out where she has the babies stashed. It’s too cold for them to be outside. I’ve been trailing her through the neighborhood, and I think she might be living under Mordecai’s porch. When are you going back over there?” she asked.
“I’m off to Rooms and Blooms.” I filled her in on Mordecai’s last request. “I’ll be back around two to bake the quiche and the Brie for the bequest party.”
I arrived at Rooms and Blooms shortly before it opened to exhibitors, and an hour before the public arrived. An escalator deposited me at the entrance, and I was distressed that I was able to stroll in without anyone stopping me. The exhibitors were displaying expensive items like chandeliers, silver tea sets, paintings, and, in one case, a fancy little bulldozer designed for homeowner use. I didn’t want them walking off during the night. The hotel had promised to post a security guard, but it appeared they’d forgotten.
I walked the entire exhibit to be sure everything was in order, pausing to admire a few spectacular booths. Iris Ledbetter’s dining room featured an antique table so highly polished that it reflected the lights trained on it. She’d installed a chair rail on the three walls and used a tone-on-tone wallpaper above it—a rich salmon pattern that repeated on a slightly lighter background. She’d picked up the salmon in the background of a fabric with white polka dots on the upholstered dining chairs. A toile window treatment repeated the salmon color on stark white, and a cushy chair in the corner was covered with the same toile. A pillow on the chair matched the polka-dot fabric on the dining room chairs and sported a salmon fringe. Silver pigeons graced a buffet of inlaid wood and a crystal chandelier lit it all from above. The room would surely bring her new design clients.
I strolled on, picking an empty bourbon bottle out of vivid purple irises at the base of a gazebo. I found Natasha’s booth, and couldn’t imagine why she was upset that Iris would probably win Best of Show. Natasha had covered the walls with black cloth. The center featured a gigantic TV screen, on which she played episodes of her show during the day. Frightening, bigger-than-life head shots of Natasha flanked the TV screen on both sides and repeated on the adjoining walls. In the middle of the floor, a glass table displayed a tool kit. I stepped inside to have a closer look. A hard plastic case of robin’s egg blue, embellished with “Natasha” in glittery letters, sat open, displaying household tools. Hammer, measuring tape, screwdrivers—everything in girly robin’s egg blue. A larger case displayed a cordless nail gun and a cordless reciprocating saw. Natasha had made sure her name was everywhere—on the tools, the cases, and even the saw blades.
A soft staccato noise drew my attention. I followed the sound, my Keds allowing me to tread the floors without alerting anyone that I might be near. It grew stronger, and I thought it sounded like snoring. I was dead-on.
In Nolan DuPont’s Asian-inspired bedroom, smack in the middle of a bed that appeared to float on air, a grown man slept, stretched out comfortably. I suspected I’d found my security guard. I hustled to a kitchen exhibit, borrowed a timer, returned to Sleeping Beauty, and set it off. The jangling alarm reverberated through the silent hall with such force that Sleeping Beauty flipped right off the bed and onto the hard floor.
I peered down at him. “Rise and shine.”
He rubbed his head and sat up. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
He had to be kidding.
He scrambled to his feet. “I’ll have to escort you out.”
I held up the timer. “If I were sneaking around, do you think I’d have bothered to wake you up?”
He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “
Awww.
This isn’t good.”
“You’d best go tell your boss. It’ll be better if he hears it from you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He ambled off and I hoped he wouldn’t see another bed because he might decide to take a nap on his way out.
My small staff drifted in and gave me reports about the previous day. All in all, it was going pretty well.
But midmorning, angry voices floated to me. I hustled in the direction of the sound, and found a short woman with curly black hair making a fuss at Finkel Kitchen and Bath. She wore a low-cut sweater that seemed designed to show off cleavage, and revealed so much that her bust reminded me of old movie stars who wore bras that propped their breasts up like shelves. I wondered if they would hold a cup of coffee, but then her menacing tone jolted me back to reality. “Where is he?”
A freckled redhead, wearing a Finkel Kitchen and Bath T-shirt, stammered, “He left yesterday afternoon, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“I’ll bet you haven’t. He’s old enough to be your father. Doesn’t that just gross you out?”
The redhead, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, seemed puzzled. “No. I always assumed my boss would be older than me.”
The irate woman was at a loss for one moment, but then her expression changed to one that was pure evil, and she said in a low, level tone, “Don’t you pretend to be stupid. Do you think you’re the first pretty girl he ever hired for other purposes?” And then she hissed, “Where is my husband?”
SEVEN
From
“Ask Natasha”
:
Dear Natasha,
My husband watched your show about building ponds and now he thinks that would be a great summer project. I really don’t want a muddy ditch in my backyard, nor do I relish the idea of a mosquito factory. A proper pond looks complicated. Wouldn’t you suggest hiring a professional?
 
—Landlubber in Landover Hills
 
Dear Landlubber,
 
A backyard pond is an easy homeowner project. Let hubby at it! Be sure he locates the pond near an electrical outlet so you can install lights and enjoy your new water feature at night.
 
—Natasha
In some ways, it wasn’t really my problem, except that I wanted to calm or remove this woman before she made a bigger stink. On the other hand, there was my overwhelming fear that the husband in question was Kurt. I smiled at her, offered to help, and coaxed her away from the booth.
“What can I do for you?” I asked as sweetly as I could.
She ran nervous fingers through her hair. “My husband never came home last night.” The muscles in her neck pulled taut. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bother a stranger about it. It’s not the first time this has happened. I thought I might find him here with his latest bimbette.”
I thought I knew the answer, but I had to ask. “Who is your husband?” I held my breath.
“Kurt Finkel, head rat fink of Finkel Kitchen and Bath.” She heaved a huge sigh and clutched her throat with one hand. “This is the last time. I’ve said that before, but this really is the last time he’s going to do this to me.” Her voice trembled. “I just can’t take any more nights of uncertainty. He doesn’t care about me. If he did, he wouldn’t put me through this. I’ve had enough.”
“I’m very sorry. If it’s any consolation, I saw him yesterday evening.” What else could I say? I certainly didn’t think it was my place to tell her he’d had a drink with his old flame last night, or that I thought I saw his corpse. After all, I didn’t know what had happened to him. But my conscience hammered at me. Maybe I
should
spill the beans. But what if the guy really was just playing a prank on us all? “Was he prone to . . .”
In a low growl, she uttered, “What did he do?”
The pressure to tell his wife the whole truth weighed on me like an elephant. “He was”—I cleared my throat—“
is
going to remodel a kitchen for Natasha’s TV show. She’s renovating a house for the statewide Home and Garden Tour.”
“Natasha?” she squealed. “
The
Natasha?”
I nodded.
“Natasha called him once before. That mutton head better not mess it up this time.”
Too late for that. I swallowed hard before I continued. “I was at the house in question this morning to clean up, and . . . well, I thought I saw him inside a window seat.” Something told me not to mention that I thought he was dead, so I added lamely, “With a head injury.”
She recoiled. “What!?”
“Wait, it gets even stranger. I called the police, and when the cop arrived, he wasn’t there anymore.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Who
are
you? And why would you say such a thing? That’s just sick. Sick!” Tilting her head, she glared at me as she backed away and left.

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