Rooms to Die For (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

How could a stove be a beautiful beast and a jewel at the same time? A physical impossibility, but somehow the La Cornue bridged that impossible gap.

Away from Tiny Forbes’s crowded workroom with its screaming saws, construction hammers and sawdust, and nestled between the sparkling windows of the Showhouse kitchen, the stove intimidated like a magnificent animal and gleamed like a deep-toned ruby.

The fact that you couldn’t boil so much as a cup of water on it didn’t matter in the least. Visual impact was what I was after, and the outrageous stove fit that bill to perfection. As Hugo had done the day before, I wanted to jump up and down—but for an entirely different reason.

“Thanks so much, Tiny. This was an inspiration. It saves the day.”

“Yeah, it’s some appliance all right. You don’t see many of these in a lifetime.” He snapped his suspenders. Yellow ones today. “Your open-panel fridge came in. So what do you want on the front of that baby?”

“I had weathered shutters in mind. Walnut like the floor and the prep island that’s due to be delivered soon. But I don’t think there’s time to search the renovation suppliers. So I’ll have to go with new. Hate to, though.”

“You want I should buy a set and have my guys distress them?”

“Would you do that?”

“Of course. They get finished, you’ll think the shutters came off a barn in New Hampshire.”

“Perfect!”

I’m sure my eyes took on a shine. Maybe from tears. Everybody was so helpful. Alone I could never have pulled this room together with such economy and in such a short time. The old saying was true: good friends are more precious than gold.

Familiar footsteps came thumping along the hall.

As he had yesterday, Hugo walked in through the open doorway, nodded and glanced around. “My movers are outside. Just wanted to be sure you’re ready.”

“I’m waiting with bated breath.”

He smiled, turned on his heel and tromped back down the hall.

I grinned at Tiny. “There’s an altar in my future, Tiny.”

“A what?”

“Stick around for a few minutes. You’ll see what I mean.”

Even Hugo was about to be helpful. Not too willingly, perhaps, but help was still help, whatever the source.

* * *

That afternoon, Austin came into the Library as he always did, in silence, without making eye contact with anyone. He stayed close to the walls, sidled up to the service counter and, reaching into a pocket, withdrew two one dollar bills and placed them on the countertop.

“What’ll it be today, buddy?” Dan asked with a smirk, knowing full well what Austin wanted, playing a little mean-spirited game.

“Water.”

I left my café table and strolled over to stand beside Austin, being careful not to upset him by touching him.

“It’s my turn to give you a present, Austin,” I said. Though I kept my voice low, it startled him and he backed up a step. “Let me pay for your water, okay?” Clearly he didn’t know how to respond. “It’s all right,” I said to Dan. “I’ll take care of it later. What do you say, Austin? Will you sit with me?”

He hesitated. I hoped he wouldn’t bolt and run before I had a chance to show him the photographs. But he didn’t. Dan plunked down a bottle of Evian, and Austin picked it up and put the money back in his pocket.

“Come on,” I said.

Like a puppy, or a sweet child, he followed me across the café to my table in the corner. At two-thirty the lunch crowd had thinned. Only a handful of stragglers sat chatting over coffee. No doubt Rossi’s plant was among them, but I couldn’t pick her out. Maybe the petite blonde sitting alone and sipping a latte?

Austin settled opposite me, as stiff and uncomfortable as a visitor from an alien land. Was this the first time he’d ever been seated in here?

“How’s your water?” I pointed to his untouched bottle.

“Water’s good.”

“Yes, it is.”

To my relief he twisted off the cap and took a swallow.

“You remember the other day out in the parking lot?” I asked.

Instantly wary, he put down the bottle and clenched his hands together.

“Somebody hurt me,” I continued. “Remember?”

A timid nod.

“Did you see who hurt me, Austin?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s very good.” I plucked the manila envelope off the tabletop. “I have pictures in here. I’d like to show them to you. Is that all right?”

He picked up the bottle and took another swallow. “I like pictures.”

“Well, these are all pictures of people. Maybe one is the person who hurt me. If you see that person, will you tell me?”

“Yes.”

I needed to hurry. Austin’s water was half gone, and he usually bolted for the main entrance as soon as he drained a bottle.

I slid the snapshots out of the envelope. Rossi had covered all bases. He’d apparently included everybody I’d spoken to even casually since the day José died. One by one I held them up for Austin to inspect. Each time I asked, “Is this the bad person?”

Each time, between sips, he shook his head. The last one was of Claudia Lopez, of all people.

Again Austin shook his head. “No.”

“No of course not. She’s a nice lady.”

“The nice lady didn’t do it. It was a man.”

I tensed and sat up straight. “Was the man in one of the pictures?”

Austin shook his head.

“You’re sure.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Okay, Austin. Thank you for your help. We need to find that man. We need to find out why he hurt me.”

Austin leaned over and patted the tote I had resting on an empty chair. “He wanted this bag.”

“How do you know?”

“He had it in his hands. I made him drop it.”

“You did?”

He nodded, looking pleased. “I scared him away from you. I took your bag and put it on the ground. Then you woke up.”

“And you went for the doorman. You’re my hero.” I hesitated, not wanting to press him too hard. “You’re certain the man you scared away isn’t in here?” I tapped the envelope.

“No, he isn’t.” He picked up his Evian and drank it dry.

“Could we look through the pictures again,” I asked quickly. “This time we’ll look for the person who left the man hanging on the rope?”

He shook his head. “He isn’t in there either.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You must remember something, Austin. Try. Try for me.”

He twirled the empty bottle between his palms. “I remember his shirt.”

“Well that’s good. What was it like?”

“It was nice.”

“Can you tell me anything else about it? The color maybe?”

Austin pushed back his chair without answering. “I have to go. They always say, ‘No loitering here.’” His chin quivered. “I only loitered that one night. But nobody knows except you.”

He leaped up from the table, jostling it a little, and hurried from the Library. Not until he was out of sight did I realize what he meant. The one time he had lingered in the mall was the night José was murdered.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I glanced across the passenger seat. Rossi drove with his usual single-minded intensity, jaw thrust forward, both hands on the wheel.

“So the upshot is that Austin didn’t recognize anyone,” I said, sorry to disappoint him. “All he could remember was a nice shirt.”

“The chance was slim that he would be of help, but I hoped he might. In any event, we can’t be sure what he told you was accurate.”

“I knew you’d say that, but I’m sure he
was
being accurate. He looked at every image carefully and took his time answering.”

Unconvinced, Rossi shrugged. “Okay. Then chances are the mugging was a random incident. Nevertheless, I asked Oliver Kent to hire a security guard for the mall parking lot.”

“And?”

“He scoffed. Said he can’t afford it. Claims the market’s soft for high-end products, and the mall’s a white elephant. He’s been bleeding money for months. A few stores have already closed, and now the flower shop’s dead and it looks like Mrs. Vega will vacate soon. He’s a worried man.”

“So are you. Is it the case that’s bothering you,” I asked, “or something else? Let’s have it, or neither one of us will enjoy dinner.”

He took his attention from the road for an instant to focus on me. “Have I ever mentioned what a great detective you’d make?”

“Several times. So come on, what’s wrong?”

In front of us, an elderly man drove a Lexus ten miles under the limit. Savoring the evening, no doubt. Easy to understand why. A soft lavender sky floated over the Gulf, darkening into purple at the horizon. Here and there, as in old master paintings, late-day sun rays fired down shafts of peach glow.

Still awaiting Rossi’s reply, I lowered my window and with a sigh of pure pleasure breathed in the rush of fresh air. Delicious. I drank in the coolness like a parched plant. Born and raised in Boston, sometimes I longed for the Northeast, especially at the end of a hot subtropical summer. But the longing never lasted more than a few minutes. I adored living in Naples with its year-round flowers, Gulf breezes and casual lifestyle.

Like tonight. Here it was late September, and I was on my way out to dinner with a handsome man who wore a shirt blooming with blue plumerias and khaki shorts that showed off his tree-trunk legs. I wore shorts too, white ones, with a kelly green tank top. To hide my stitches, I’d folded a green scarf into a wide band and tied it to one side, pirate style. A few more days of healing and I should be able to lose the scarf, but for now I needed it.

Rossi passed the Lexus. Would wonders never cease? He rarely passed anyone. “You throwing caution to the winds?” I asked.

“I do that in the bedroom, not on the road,” he said, his eyes resolutely straight ahead.

Rossi never lied. At least I hadn’t caught him in one yet. Maybe because he didn’t always answer my questions. “You still haven’t told me what’s on your mind.”

He heaved a sigh, pulled into the right lane and slowed down, causing the shiny Lexus to trail behind his beat-up Mustang. “We’re reached a dead end in the Vega case. Interpol contacted the department today. The Colombian government is not searching for Lopez.”

I forgot about the breeze and the Lexus. “What does that mean? He didn’t steal the money in Cartegena?”

“Deva, detectives never, repeat never, jump to conclusions like that.”

“That’s a crock and you know it. You jump to conclusions all the time. You call them hunches.”

He had to smile. “I’ll let you in on a secret. We keep our hunches to ourselves.”

“Okay, Mr. Cryptic, how about this? Isn’t there at least a chance Raúl didn’t steal from his boss?”

“Lack of evidence is not the same as innocence.”

“Nor does it mean a suspect is guilty. Even I know that.”

“Lopez was in the house at the time of the theft. So were others who had access to the safe. Ergo, the Colombian authorities have no proof that he was the culprit. No proof, no extradition.” Rossi tore his glance from the road for another millisecond. “Before you ask about his illegal status again, that’s moot. Whatever his status was originally, Claudia was able to get him a green card after they were married.”

“So you have no case against him?”

“Not unless something surfaces.”

I was pleased by what Rossi said about Raúl. I liked him, and he had apparently been victimized by José Vega. For whatever he did or didn’t do, he had paid a price. Whether it was enough to serve justice, I hadn’t a clue. I was just happy the authorities had nothing on him.

Which brought me, and certainly Rossi, back to the question: If Raúl hadn’t killed José, who had? No wonder Rossi looked so troubled. I hadn’t yet mentioned what Austin confided right after I quizzed him. Apparently he had lingered in the mall one night, and maybe, just maybe, saw who killed José. Rossi wouldn’t give much credence to the possibility, but he needed to know about it.

I put a hand on his thigh. “There’s something I want to—”

As if it had a pulse of its own, the car swerved to the right.

“Christ, Deva, I nearly ran up a tree.”

I snatched my hand away. “Sorry,” I said, meaning it. Rossi was a sexy guy, but that reaction was pure nerves, not my female impact. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to bring up a weird possibility.

He turned left onto the East Tamiami Trail, then a few hundred yards ahead exited right onto Tin City’s busy parking lot. Even in the off-season, tourists and locals alike kept the funky collection of tin-roofed buildings throbbing. It hadn’t always been so. Situated on the Gordon River on the edge of Naples Bay, Tin City started life in the early nineteen hundreds as a culling house and clam and oyster processing plant.

Nowadays loosely connected by rough boardwalks, Tin City boutiques hawked T-shirts and candles, swimsuits and scrimshaw, chocolates and jewelry. The kind of treasures locals bought as gifts and tourists bought as keepsakes. Best of all, Tin City was home to Baywalk, a restaurant with great seafood and an outdoor dining terrace overlooking the dock.

We were in luck and found a table for two facing the Gordon River. The odor of sea salt and frying oysters mingled in the air.

“Hungry?” I asked Rossi.

“A cold beer would be nice.”

He looked so stressed, so unrelenting, so weighed down, I longed to throw myself in his arms and kiss away the frown on his mouth, smooth the furrows on his brow, and definitely stroke that thigh again. But all I did was smile, hoping the anticipation of a cold brew and a platter of hot fried seafood would make him smile in return. No dice.

I sighed and ordered a glass of chardonnay from our college-age server. With the efficiency Baywalk was famous for, she brought our drinks out fast. We clinked.

“To us.” Rossi took a long, deep swallow and smiled. At last. “Life is good,” he said.

“Tonight it’s even better than good,” I replied, sipping my wine, relaxing into the moment.

“Looks like we have company,” he said as a sleek white Chris-Craft pulled up to the dock near our table.

A good size, twenty-five feet or so from stem to stern, the boat’s name was painted on its glossy hull.
Miss Understood.
Stretched from the forward cabin to the rear bowsprit, a red banner flapped in the breeze, announcing in bold black lettering The Harlan Conway Show.

“You’re in for a treat,” I said to Rossi. “See that girl in the red outfit?”

“Sure do. She’d be hard to miss.”

“That’s my client. Imogene Stirling.”

She wore a red cowgirl dress, its bouffant skirt cinched at the waist with a wide gold belt studded with fake gems. Tooled cowboy boots rode her legs to the knee and a big Stetson sporting a red feather added inches to her height.

One of the two men on board, skinny and needing a shave, leaped onto the dock and secured the Chris-Craft to a stanchion before hopping back on and picking up a fiddle. Syd. Imogene slung a guitar strap over her shoulder and tuned her instrument. Lyle—it must have been Lyle—bearded and paunchy, raised a megaphone to his lips.

“Hello, everybody!”

A few teenagers strolling the boardwalk snickered. Unfazed, Lyle repeated, “I said hello, everybody! Come on, fun lovers. Let’s hear it!”

Grudging “hellos” echoed along the dock.

“Better. Not good, but better. In case you’re wondering, I’m Lyle. This here’s Syd and this...the star of our show...is none other than that Dog Town sensation, Miss Imogene Stirling. Take a bow, Imogene.”

Imogene strummed the guitar, spread her skirt wide and launched into “My Baby Loves Me.” She had a rollicking country style and so did Syd on the fiddle. Soon Lyle’s bass joined in and before long the reluctant crowd had been won over. The trio finished to a solid round of applause from both the terrace dinners and the boardwalk strollers.

“She’s good,” Rossi said, “a local Martina McBride.”

I sat on the edge of my seat and nodded. The first number had just been a crowd warmer-upper. The real show hadn’t begun.

Rossi ordered a second round. We hadn’t looked at the menu yet, and truth to tell, at that moment, food was the last thing on my mind.

Another country number, this time a rowdy version of “Red High Heels,” and then Imogene got out her big guns.

She plucked a few baritone chords from the guitar, unexpected enough to catch the crowd’s attention.

“Thanks, everybody, for that nice hand. The boys and I appreciate it. So does Harlan Conway.” She pointed to the red banner sagging a little behind her now that night had fallen and taken away the breeze. “Harlan’s the best architect in all of Florida. Maybe America. Maybe the world!” Letting the guitar swing on its strap for a second, she flung her arms wide. “Harlan Conway...remember the name, folks...is in a contest for a house he designed. The contest’s the Caldwell Prize. And—” another pluck, “—he needs your support.” She pointed to a teenaged girl. “Yours, honey!”

The girl giggled and clung to her date’s arm.

Imogene’s finger worked its way through the throng. “And yours. And yours. And yours! We have to help our own boy—a Naples genius—win this contest. His house is on Fisherman’s Creek. Why don’t you drive by and see it? Oh, you’ll recognize it right away. It’s the boxy one on stilts. And once you see his house, you’ll know why he deserves to win.

“So visit the Caldwell Prize website, everybody, and post your comment. Or just press the ‘like’ button.” A strummed chord. “Help swing the judges’ votes the right way. To Harlan. That’s Harlan Conway, everybody, for the Caldwell Prize!” A few fiddle flourishes and a couple of bass chords, then “In honor of the occasion, I wrote a little song. ‘Harlan Is Hot, Hot Hot.’ Let’s hit it, boys!”

Harlan Conway is hot
,
hot
,
hot

But his house is cool and it’s green.

With solar heat that can’t be beat
,

And walls of glass and sawtooth grass.

Conway
,
Conway
,
Conway.

It’s shotgun style brought up to date

So forget about the rest.
Go for the best.

Yeah
,
forget the rest.
His house is best.

He’s cool and he’s green
,

Green
,
green
,
that’s solar green.

You know who I mean?

Imogene stopped strumming and yelled. “Tell me, everybody! Who do I mean? Who’s the best? Better than the rest?”

Going along with the fun, the crowd yelled back, “Conway, Conway, Conway!”

“So who’re you for?”

“Conway, Conway, Conway!”

Eyes shining with amusement, Rossi leaned across the table. “The Conway guy, he know about this?”

I shook my head. “No.”

Rossi laughed. “Wait’ll he finds out. Though maybe he’ll like it. The crowd’s sure eating it up.”

I glanced around the terrace. People were laughing and clapping, thoroughly into the music. Imogene said she was an entertainer, and she was—if for all the wrong reasons tonight. I glanced over my shoulder to see how the patrons in the screened-in bar behind us were reacting. A familiar figure sitting on a stool with a martini glass in front of him caught my eye.

My turn to lean across the table. “Rossi, I was wrong. See that man over there, the one sitting alone at the bar? That’s Harlan Conway. He does know about the show.”

“Maybe he’d like to join us,” Rossi said, clearly enjoying himself.

I looked back at the bar. “Too late. I think he’s leaving.”

As we watched, Harlan gulped the rest of his drink, flung some bills on the bar top, and stomped out.