Rooms to Die For (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

After Elaine McCahey’s revelation, my head pounded like a mariachi band. When she left, I swallowed two aspirin, waved goodbye to Lee, who was busy with a customer, and drove out to Fisherman’s Creek.

As soon as I measured Imogene’s wall and called in the numbers to Southern Lumber, I’d go home and rest my aching head. I parked on the gravel beside her garage. This wouldn’t take long.

I’d turned to reach for the tote on the back seat when someone knocked on the driver’s side window. Right next to my head. I screamed and jerked around in the seat. A man stood there, peering into the car. Heart racing, I yelled, “What do you want?”

“Are you Deva Dunne?”

I nodded and regretted it. His image blurred, then righted.

“May I speak to you for a moment?”

Polite. Good looking. Not a stone in his hand.

“Do I know you?” I asked, wondering why he looked somewhat familiar.

“Harlan Conway.”

Ah, of course. His picture had been in the
Naples Daily News
when he was short-listed for the Caldwell Prize. I opened the car door and stepped out. As usual near the creek, salt and a faint elusive odor of fish wafted in the breeze.

I studied my visitor for a second. Ted in Fan City had been correct. Harlan was tall and lanky, a forty-something picture-perfect Viking with a square jaw, blond hair and deep blue eyes. It was easy to understand why Imogene had fallen in love.

“Sorry if I startled you,” he said.

“I had a little accident yesterday. It’s left me a bit jumpy.”

He eyed the scarf. “I see.”

No you don’t, I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead I morphed into professional mode. “How may I help you, Mr. Conway?”

“I know all about the game you’re playing.” As if amused, his eyes sparkled as he spoke.

“Game? What do you mean?”

He folded his arms across his chest. A little lightheaded, I leaned against the car. I knew what he meant, all right, but I’d wait and let him say it.

“What you’re doing for Imogene? I’m on to you.”

I wasn’t in the mood for verbal sparring. Furthermore my loyalty belonged to my client, not to this stranger. “I’m afraid you need to be more specific.”

“You’re directing the renovation of Imogene’s home.” He paused as if waiting for me to protest, but I didn’t. “Her taste, which is...shall we say, deplorable...has suddenly become superb. I wondered how that happened until I saw your business card on her desk. Then I spotted your car hidden here behind the garage.”

“You make a fine detective, Mr. Conway.”

“Call me Harlan.”

I started to nod and stopped myself in the nick of time. I upped my chin at him instead and regretted that too. “Let’s assume what you’ve just said is correct. Why tell me? Why not tell Imogene? If you don’t like pink walls and red tube tops, go the direct route. Let Imogene know. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I took a step away from the car.

He stopped me with a touch on my arm. “No, I don’t like the pink walls, but I like her. Thanks to you, her house is looking much better already. She’s toning down her own image too—most of the time.” He grinned. “Though I kind of like it when she doesn’t.”

Maybe Imogene had been right all along about those tube tops.

“Has it occurred to you, Harlan, that while you’ve been playing her, she’s been playing you?”

He bristled a little, straightening his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Out of insecurity perhaps. So I don’t want to force her hand. But I don’t like the secrecy. That’s why I’m here. Can you convince her to drop it? I would, but that might stifle the process of transformation, and I’d rather it continued. See where it ends. In my work I follow speculative leads all the time, so why not in this?”

I peered up at him. Brilliant at his work, this guy didn’t know a thing about women. No wonder handsome as he was, he’d escaped the marital noose. Why didn’t he just tell Imogene he knew what she was doing to please him and loved her for it? She’d melt all over him.

“So you view Imogene’s attempt at self-improvement as an interesting experiment? No more than that?”

“Exactly. While I’d prefer she be out in the open with this, uh, experiment of hers, it’s already borne fruit. Thanks to you.”

So Mr. Blue Eyes approved. Marvelous. What he failed to understand was that Imogene’s attempt to reinvent herself was an act of love. Maybe choosing him as the object of her adoration was her biggest taste lapse so far. Whatever. All this was more than I could deal with today. My head hurt too much, and besides I had a job to finish. I took another step away from the car and stumbled.

Harlan caught my arm. “Are you all right?”

“Not really. Someone hit me with a rock yesterday, and I’m feeling the effects. After I measure Imogene’s wall for a cypress installation, I’ll call it a day.”

He peered into my face. “You are pale. I can see your—”

“Freckles. That does it. I need to lie down.”

“Imogene told me about the cypress wall. Great idea. Why don’t you let me do the measuring and give her the figures? She’ll tell me she’ll bring them to a lumberyard but send them to you instead.” He shrugged. “Yet another example of how this subterfuge complicates things. Nevertheless I’ll be happy to measure for you. If you trust me.” He gave me a dazzling smile as if to say how could I refuse an offer from a genius?

I couldn’t. The pounding in my head had intensified. I had to get home before I killed myself on the road, or worse, somebody else.

Halfway to Surfside, I realized I had missed a golden opportunity. I should have quizzed Harlan about that body he found floating in the Gulf.

Chapter Twenty-One

Rossi stomped around my bedroom, ranting and raving and decked out to fit the occasion—in a Hawaiian shirt with Mauna Loa spewing red hot lava out of its crater. Lots of lava. Lots of craters.

I’d never seen him so angry, and pulled the duvet up to my chin to kind of hide. “Hey,” I said, peering underneath the covers. “What happened to my clothes?”

He stopped mid-stride. “See! You don’t even remember that I took them off. And if you can’t remember that, something’s definitely wrong. The ER doc told you to rest. That didn’t mean scrambling around lumberyards and driving all over hell and back. You’ve had a concussion. Do you understand what that means? You could have passed out behind the wheel. Killed yourself. Taken somebody with you.”

He stopped at the foot of the bed. He had to. He had run out of wind.

“I’m sorry, Rossi. You’re absolutely correct.”

“Damn right.”

“I’ve never seen you so mad.”

“I hope you never will again. Anger is the other face of fear, Deva. And last night you scared me shitless. I came into a dark house and found you stretched out on the bed in your clothes. You even had your shoes on, for God’s sake. I had a hell of a time rousing you enough to get you undressed.”

“Thank you for draping everything over the chair.” If he had been stomping around on the green shift, I could kiss it goodbye.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I have to. I need to pee.”

“Not surprising. You’ve slept for fifteen hours. Maybe more.”

“So would you...?”

“Okay, I’ll leave. For the kitchen. Throw on a robe and come out. I’m scrambling eggs.” He leveled a finger at me. “I don’t want to hear how lousy they are. When’s the last time you ate something?”

Stricken, I stared at him, mouth agape.

“Thought so. You can’t remember.” He strode out of the bedroom and closed the door none too quietly.

I slid out from under the covers and scooted into the bathroom. Feeling steady enough on my feet, I’d risk a quick shower. Too bad I couldn’t shampoo, but I didn’t dare. Not until the stitches were removed. I’d be a sight to behold by then.

More than sweet talk, Rossi’s anger told me he cared deeply for me. And I felt the same way. Still I huffed out a breath. The problem was I loved my independence and wasn’t ready to give it up just yet, though the commitment I knew he wanted was breathing down my neck.

In the shower, the water, warm and soothing, splashed over me, rinsing away the tension, refreshing my skin and, I hoped, my spirit. I toweled off without looking at my image in the mirror. Then I peeked. That did it. I couldn’t lie to my own face. I didn’t love my independence above all else. I simply enjoyed it. That was different. The truth was, I was afraid to get too close to anyone Suppose I did and that person ended up like Jack? Dead. The horror of that was more than I could wrap my injured head around.

“Soup’s ready,” he called.

I tossed on a robe. Time for dry eggs and greasy, burnt toast prepared by loving, inept hands. I was a lucky woman.

“I’ve already phoned Lee,” he said as I padded barefoot into the kitchen.

“Oh, really? Wasn’t making that call my job?” I asked with a little frost on the question.

“Don’t even bother with that pissed-off defensive stuff. Not today. You can go back to being a feminist when I’m over being scared.” He waited by the stove, ready to field my retort, but I got smart for once and sat at the table without saying a word.

“Bottom line,” he said, “Lee isn’t expecting you today.”

“Thank you. I know you’re looking out for me.”

“You’re welcome,” he said stiffly, pouring me a cup of coffee so pale I could see clear through to the bottom of the mug. Then he turned back to the stove and spooned a pile of eggs onto my plate.

“How many did you give me?” I asked when he plunked the plate down.

“I don’t know. I scrambled six.”

“There’s about five here. That’s too much.”

“Okay. I’ll take some off.” He scooped off a spoonful and handed me a piece of blackened toast. Thank God it was dry.

“Want some butter on that?”

“No, thanks.”

I forked up some eggs and took a bite. I wouldn’t gag no matter what. Not bad, but not good. “Delicious.”

He looked pleased. “My first time. They’re okay, huh?”

“Wonderful.” To take my mind off the food, I asked, “Anything new on the mall cases?”

Busy with his own eggs, he nodded. “Yes, I met with Austin McCahey’s mother. He’s autistic.”

I lowered the fork to my plate. “Yes, I know. She came to see me. We’re both convinced Austin wouldn’t have done the dirty deed. And he didn’t kill José or the guy in the Gulf either. All that planning and execution would be beyond him.”

“You may be right about McCahey. But you can forget about the guy in the water.”

“Really?”

“He wasn’t murdered. Natural causes.”

“You’re kidding me. What about those automobile parts he was chained to? You mean to tell me—”

Rossi held up a hand, palm out. “Buddy Monroe died of massive heart failure. He had a cardiac condition he was well aware of. He also had a vintage Jag, an XKE that was the joy of his life. His Last Will and Testament specified the details of his burial at sea right down to the placement of the hood ornament.”

Eggs forgotten, I asked, “Can you do that? Be dumped in the Gulf that way?”

“You need a permit. But it can be done.”

“How bizarre.”

“True. It also destroys the serial killer theory. We’re back to one case of potential murder and one potential murderer who may, or may not, be the same person who attacked you.”

“Well, whoever it was, theft couldn’t have been the motive. Nothing was taken.”

Rossi looked up from his breakfast, something like macho amusement at my theory sparking in his eyes. “Correct.”

Definitely macho.

“It may have been a random incident,” he said. “Or somebody connected to José Vega’s death wanted to scare you. Who and why are what I have to find out.”

He stood, picked up our plates and bent to put them in the dishwasher. “While I’m doing that today...and other clever sleuthing...I need to know you’re safe.” He straightened up. “I want you to promise me you’ll stay in, give yourself a quiet day. Sit on the lanai, listen to the birds, watch the gardenias bloom. By tomorrow maybe you’ll be back to normal.” He treated me to a white Chiclets grin. “Though I’m not sure what that is.”

“But—”

“If necessary I’ll check in periodically during the day. On the house phone.”

“I was thinking of having that ripped out.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, I promise. I’m in for the day. I have paperwork to clear up anyway.”

Actually having Rossi call the shots felt good. The long sleep had restored me, and the throbbing in my head wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but the real whammy was knowing someone had tried to harm me. The question was why? Who had I angered to that degree? My inquiries around the mall had been no more than any interested person might have asked. At least, I think that was all they were.

Rossi left after giving me one of his lingering signature kisses to remember him by—as if I could forget. I wandered out to the lanai and slumped on a lounger, gazing at the pool and the waving palms and beyond at the azure water of the lapping Gulf. The sun gilded the scene with tropical warmth, and if I didn’t know better I’d say all was right with the world.

But it wasn’t.

Who? Who had meant me harm? The list of possibles was short enough.

For some reason, Hugo popped into my mind first. Not surprising. He hadn’t been happy over the loan of that antique altar. And poor Austin. He had found me. Why was he hanging around the mall parking lot anyway? Coincidence, being in the wrong place at the right time? I didn’t want to believe he would hurt me, but the incident in the restroom had been unnerving. I shook my head—just a little—no, not Austin. He’d warned me that the third floor was dangerous. Had told me to stay away from there.

Then there was Oliver. He’d been his usual aloof self outside the elevator. Even though my challenge had been mild enough. But who knew what he really thought? The guy practically made an art form out of being uncommunicative. Yet he had been chatting away with Claudia as though they were at a cocktail party for two.

All this speculation made my head hurt. If Rossi had any definite news about his prime suspect, I felt sure he would have said so. That meant Raúl was still a free man. Interpol sure took its time. Or maybe the Colombian authorities were in no rush to get an accused thief back in their clutches. Maybe their dockets were so loaded with drug runners, they couldn’t be bothered. And maybe I was just becoming cynical.

With a silent flap of wings, a mourning dove fled the palm frond outside the lanai and flew toward the sun. Instant freedom. What a gift. The closest I could come to that was on my beach runs. The last one nearly a week ago now. Well, this wasn’t the day for another. My head couldn’t take the pounding.

I rose unsteadily from the lounger and went into the bedroom to get dressed. Except for my new lacy lavender lingerie, nothing fancy. Just cutoffs and an oversized T-shirt with a stretched-out neck that slid over my bandage easily. I fluffed up my hair as best I could and applied lip gloss and under-eye cover-up. Why should a blow on the scalp affect the skin under a woman’s eyes? Another mystery to solve.

A woman. Who’s to say a woman hadn’t hit me with that rock? Certainly not Beatriz. God forbid. Or Sandra at the visitors’ desk. She had no motive. Or none that I knew of. That left only Claudia. If she scared me away from the mall, she’d escape the knowing look in my eyes each time I saw her with Oliver. That annoying, knowing look. Then, of course, there was Elaine McCahey, whose son was her very life. Yes, paranoia was the word for where my thoughts were leading. Elaine was a nurturer, not a mugger. Shame on me.

A shame too that my mental list didn’t reveal the culprit. Or was the killer—and the mugger—hidden somewhere inside my head?