Rooms to Die For (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dazed, I sat beside Sandra at the reception desk, cradling a mug of coffee, trying to warm the chill I couldn’t seem to shake since finding the horror that was Hugo. I’d peered into the car and stretched out a hand, ready to jog him awake. Then I’d looked down. Blood oozed from a wound in his belly and the odor of death, the foul, acrid scent of it, rose all around me.

That must have been when I screamed.

As I waited to be interrogated, the parking lot swarmed with police cruisers, the forensics rolling lab, an ambulance, and Rossi’s beat-up Mustang.

My head wound throbbed as furiously as it had a week ago, and my fingers trembled on the mug. Despite the coffee, the chill wouldn’t leave me,

“You cold, Deva?” Sandra asked.

“Yes, freezing.”

“I could tell. You’re so pale all your freckles are showing.”

She took a black sweater off the back of her swivel chair and draped it over my shoulders. That helped, and I sent her a grateful smile. But my head continued to throb. Hugo dead? Why? Though he had been difficult, even irascible, those weren’t reasons for murder. Something else was going down in the Naples Design Mall, and it reeked worse than death. It reeked of evil.

I wondered if Hugo had a family in Colombia who would grieve for him. A family that depended on him for survival. A mother, maybe. Brothers and sisters. Even if he didn’t, the consequences of his killing would be far-reaching. For one thing, his death spelled the death of the Spanish Galleria. Beatriz would never keep it open now, not without Hugo, who had been like a son to her.

Worse, there would be no keeping the circumstances of his killing out of the local media—no softening of the facts with a statement that his death might have been a suicide as had happened when José died. The truth would come out, and that spelled hideous publicity for the mall. If Oliver Kent was already worried about the future, this killing would only add to his woes. At the very least, Hugo’s death meant another empty space in the mall. For poor Beatriz, another empty space in her heart. And for the other shop owners, an even more uncertain future.

The shaking in my hands wouldn’t stop. I put the mug on Sandra’s desk before I dropped it. I wanted to close my eyes and lie down in a darkened room with a damp cloth on my forehead and Rossi beside me. But no such luck. Not yet. Not for hours.

“You okay?” Sandra asked. Before I could answer, she said, “Oh no, not him again.”

Half turning in my seat, I looked toward the atrium. Coming from the direction of the Library, Austin, in his jogging suit and sneakers, was springing toward the reception area. As he hurried past us en route to the main entrance, he shot a quick glance my way, no doubt startled to see me in an unusual place. But that didn’t stop him, and he kept on running, wordless as ever.

Assisted by little Officer Hughes, Officer Batano had taken over Phil’s duties at the bronze doors. He was only letting in people on police business, and with her clipboard in hand Hughes was recording the name and contact information of anyone leaving the building. When Austin approached them, Batano threw a beefy arm across one of the bronze doors, stopping him in his tracks.

This should be interesting.

Passive and slump-shouldered, Austin stood in front of the officers, not trying to leave or do anything else. I couldn’t hear what Batano was asking him, but it was clear even from a distance of fifty feet or so that he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted.

“Be right back,” I said to Sandra.

“You have to give us a name or you can’t leave. Those are my orders,” Batano was saying.

Austin stared at him, eyes wide, either not knowing how to answer, or for reasons known only to himself, refusing to do so.

“Officer, this man is a friend of mine,” I said. “Maybe I can help.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Dunne, that’d be great. Start with the hard stuff. His name.”

Batano didn’t do sarcasm well.

“His name is Austin McCahey.”

Hughes wrote that on her clipboard. “Any known address?” she asked

I gave it to her.

“Telephone where he can be reached?”

“I don’t know offhand, but I have it in my office.”

“That’ll do.”

Batano eyeballed Austin, clearly not knowing what to think of him, but knowing something was, well—off. “You going anywhere in the next few days, leave a number where you can be reached in case Homicide wants to question you.”

Austin didn’t answer him, not with a single word.

“Is that all?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“Austin,” I said, “it’s all right. The officer said you can leave now.”

Without answering, he yanked the door open and took off, his flight the only acknowledgment that I had spoken. The change in his daily routine must have frightened him.

“Wow, that’s a weird one,” Batano said, holding the door ajar so he could watch Austin sprint away.

“He’s autistic. Can’t help acting as he does. He’s harmless though.”

Batano let the door swing shut. “You vouching for him?”

“You mean for his actions today?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, wish I could but I can’t. This is the first I’ve seen of him since I got here. I don’t know where he’s been, or what he’s done. All I know is he’s a gentle soul
.
”
Except when he’s slamming doors in the ladies’ room.

“If you say so.” Having seen it all, Batano was tough to convince.

I just nodded and went back to Sandra and my now-cool coffee. After one sip, I wrinkled my nose and put down the mug.

“Want a refill?” Sandra asked.

“That would be heaven.”

She laughed and picked up the mug. “Be right back.”

The reception area offered a clear view of the front entrance, so I spotted Rossi the minute he walked in. He looked tense and determined, the notebook that was practically a living extension of his fingers open in one hand, his pencil stub in the other. Even his peach-and-cream shirt with its jaunty bamboo fronds didn’t lighten up his appearance. Rossi was worried.

After exchanging a few words with the officers, he strode toward the reception desk. He didn’t waste any time or words on a greeting.

“Batano gave me the gist of what you found. I’ll talk to you later. For now, I need to quiz the shop owners before they decide to leave early. Stay put,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

“But—”

He didn’t get far when Ted from Breeze City rushed off the elevator and hurried over to us.

“I just heard about Hugo,” he said. “Oh my God, Deva, what happened?”

“And you are?” Rossi asked.

“Ted Wolff. I work here. Is it true?”

“That Hugo Navarre is dead?”

Out of breath and panting, either from emotion or hurry or both, Ted simply nodded.

“I’m sorry to say it is true,” Rossi said. “You knew the deceased?”

Ted drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “Of course I knew him. We were friends. Good friends. God, we were drinking buddies. You know, like after work. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Rossi asked.

“Last night. At the Gators Pub. I met with him and—” He stopped to catch another breath, or to catch the end of his sentence before he accidentally blurted it out.

“And?” So Rossi had also noticed the abrupt pause.

“We had a couple of brews. I left for home. What Hugo did after that I don’t know.”

Rossi wrote something in his notepad. “He hang around with anybody else here in the mall?”

“Not that I know of. Except for the Vegas. He’s been staying with Mrs. Vega—Beatriz—since José was killed. She might know something.”

Rossi kept his eyes on his notes. A good thing he did. His handwriting was so terrible nobody else would be able to decipher it. After a few moments of scribbling, he looked up. “What about friends outside the mall?”

“He was from Colombia. He may have known some people from there. If so, he never mentioned anyone.”

“I see.” Rossi treated Ted to the glare of his see-all eyes. “When you met for drinks after work, anybody ever join you?”

Ted hesitated, as if thinking that over. “Uh, yeah, sometimes. You know, a guy at the bar might want to talk to us. Stuff like that.”

“Anybody you could name?”

“No, not that I can remember. No last names anyway.”

Really? Ted must have forgotten about Harlan Conway. I was sure he’d once told me that he and Harlan used to meet for drinks occasionally. I gave a mental shrug. Maybe Ted didn’t meet Harlan on the same nights he met Hugo. On the other hand, maybe he did. If so, Rossi would want to know.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“So we’re back to pink, are we?” Harlan asked the next morning.

A plastic bag full of pink pillows in my arms, I whirled around, the gravel in Imogene’s drive scattering under my sandals.

“The color makes her happy, Harlan. I temporarily forgot that. But I won’t forget again.” I slammed the Audi door and pocketed the key.

“Well, taste will out.”

In scuffed sandals, white shorts, and a faded denim shirt, its sleeves rolled to the elbow, he looked the picture of casual cool. I’d give him that much. But no more.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Imogene? Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

“No, the break is complete. You know what happened. I saw you and your date at the Baywalk that night. At the so-called show.”

“Yes, we were there. It was quite a tribute to you.”

He barked out a laugh. “Tribute? Is that what you’d call it? When Imogene asked me to meet her there, she said she had a surprise for me. Surprise wasn’t the word. I couldn’t believe she’d pull a stunt like that. I still can’t.”

“She only tried to help.”

“I suppose so, but she gave a new meaning to the word
tacky
.”

“We thought the show was fun, but I can see why that special song might have embarrassed you.”

“You left out the black banner with the red lettering. And how she worked the crowd for votes. In a gaudy cowgirl outfit at that. She should have known better. That’s the whole point. She didn’t, and she never will.” He shrugged. “She has no taste, and that won’t change. She’s the kind of girl who’s more comfortable in a bikini than anything else.”

However true that might be, I disliked him for not seeing past it to the genuinely sweet girl Imogene really was. “She looks great in a bikini, and the show wasn’t bad either, Harlan. Besides you can’t be responsible for what a...a fan might do.”

“I guess not, but the whole thing infuriated me.” He kicked out at the gravel and sent some pebbles flying. “I guess I was pretty rough on her afterwards.”

“I heard.” But I also heard Syd had popped him one. So it was unclear if Harlan was the rougher or the roughee. Better not to ask.

“So how is she? Is she okay?”

He really wanted to know, but he hadn’t put me in the mood to cater to his needs. So like a typical bitch, I twisted the knife a little. “She’s okay enough. Finding solace with the violinist.”

His jaw dropped a foot. “That skinny bald guy with the fiddle?”

“The same. Apparently there’s more to Syd than meets the eye. So how are you doing? And speaking of the contest, how’s it coming?”

Another kick at the gravel. “No word yet. Another two weeks before the winners are announced.”

“Well, good luck,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

“Thanks, but luck has nothing to do with it. Talent’s what matters. You should know that. You’re in the arts too.” He managed the ghost of a smile. “In a manner of speaking.”

What an insufferable boor. I wanted to stomp on the bare toes sticking out of his sandals and grind them into the gravel. But I restrained myself and, smooth as a piece of Hong Kong silk, replied, “I’ll tell Imogene you said hi,” though actually I had no intention of bringing up his frigging name.

“That would be nice. She’s a sweet girl.”

“But not your type.”

“In some ways, yes.” He smiled again.

“I meant outside the bedroom.”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”

Unfortunate? Wrong. In my humble opinion, the best thing that ever happened to Imogene Stirling was not being Harlan Conway’s type.

I stepped away from the car. “I should go in now. She’ll be waiting for me.”

“Of course.” He upped his chin at Imogene’s house. “You’ve done a good job in there.”

“She doesn’t think so.”

Hands thrust into his pockets, he stood still, looking as if he had more on his mind.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Harlan?”

“No, no. Just out for a stroll. Saw your car.” He tried for yet another smile. It came out lopsided. “Notice you’re not parking behind the garage anymore.”

“No need, but I do want to get to work. Will you let me pass, please?”

As if I had singed him, he jumped back, and I walked toward Imogene’s outside stairway, clutching the big bag of pillows.

“By the way, I heard about that killing at the Naples Design Mall,” he said.

I turned around and waited for him to say what he really meant.

“What a shame. Hugo Navarre, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Did you know Hugo?”

He hesitated, as if scanning a mental Rolodex before answering. “Slightly. I may have met him a time or two. You know the mall. It’s one big happy family. Everybody knows everybody else.”

The pillows for all their softness were getting heavy. “With what’s been going on there lately, I’d say the mall family was dysfunctional, not happy.”

“That too. Give Imogene my best.”

Suddenly in a hurry to get moving, he strode off. I sprinted up the stairs, the tail ends of my scarf flapping in the salty air. Why did I find Harlan so annoying? I blew out a breath. No need to ponder the question—the answer wasn’t hard to figure out. He had patronized me, the jerk. That was part of it. His self-assured arrogance frayed my nerves too. But his disdain for Imogene was the biggest reason. She deserved better, even if he did have movie-star good looks. Actually his looks were irritating, especially his perfectly cut and combed hair with its straight-as-an-arrow part. Clearly, the scarf and the stitches in my scalp were driving me crazy.

I jabbed a finger on Imogene’s bell. She opened the door in her Hooters shorts and the red tube top.

“You look great,” I told her, and she did.

“Thanks, Deva. Syd likes me in this outfit too. He’s not crazy about that black dress though.”

“Well,” I said, stepping into her living room, “wear whatever works.”

“That’s what I say.”

“Sounds like you’re back to your true self.”

“I think so.” Her forehead puckered a little, but other than that she looked pretty serene.

“Are you feeling all right? I mean—”

“Am I over Harlan?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head, and for a moment there, the tube top sagged. “I may never be. He’s a star, and I’m just a performer. No match at all.” Her eyes went filmy with tears. “But I can’t speak of him anymore. It sinks my heart.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that, Imogene. I loved your performance. You’re gifted.”

She drew a sniffle up her nose. “That’s what Syd says.”

“So believe him. From what I heard, he knows his music.”

“He does. He’s wonderful on that fiddle. If only he wasn’t so skinny. It’s like sleeping with a bag of bones.”

I laughed and plunked the pillows on the sofa. “Then fatten him up.”

“No time for that. We’re hitting the road. He has half a dozen gigs lined up for us in Charlotte and Punta Gorda and Ybor City. As soon as I finish packing, we’re heading out.”

I glanced at my watch. “After you leave, I’d like to stay on for a bit. The furniture store is delivering the new chairs at ten. And I have more pillows in the car and some accessories for the bedroom.”

“Stay as long as you like. Make yourself at home. Have some coffee.”

As Imogene hurried into the bedroom to finish packing, I toted the rest of the items up the stairs. In the channel water outside the glass wall, a few small boats bobbed in the gentle swells. Actually, the white walls punctuated by the driftwood look of the old cypress were just about perfect for this setting. Even the long couch draped in its canvas sheath melded seamlessly into the crisp, clean background. I sighed. Too bad Imogene didn’t like what I’d done, and until she did, I’d failed at my job.

A horn honked. I looked outside. A red pickup truck sat in the drive, its motor running.

“I think Syd’s here,” I called.

“He’s always early. I have to break him of that habit.” Imogene hurried out of the bedroom with her guitar in one hand, dragging a wheelie suitcase in the other. “A key’s on the kitchen shelf next to the phone. Stay as long as you please.”

“Break a leg,” I said.

She grinned ear-to-ear. “That’s showbiz talk. Good for you. I didn’t think you knew anything about that.”

Clearly, Imogene’s faith in my abilities had fallen to the soles of her stiletto slides. Maybe lower.

She hadn’t been gone five minutes when the furniture truck pulled onto the driveway and two built guys lifted out a pair of nubby orange chairs.

“Up here,” I called from the landing outside the door.

Placed to the left and right of the couch, the chairs did wonders to brighten up the space. And bright is what would please Imogene. Tossed with pink and orange pillows, the couch took on an Imogene personality as well. We’d have to wait for the custom-made pink coffee table-ottoman, but the wait would be well worth while.

In her apricot bedroom, I settled the pink-and-orange-striped duvet over the neatly made king-size bed, covered the pillows with matching shams, and layered the bed with more pink and orange pillows, larger ones in back, gradually downsizing to a darling little ruffled pink neck roll in the front of the pile.

Wait’ll Syd sees that.

In my search for a coffee mug, I rifled the kitchen cupboards and came across a collection of pink pottery stashed out of the way on a top shelf. When pleasing Harlan meant banning all things pink, Imogene must have hidden them out of sight.

I reached up and took down a large pink serving bowl and a covered tureen. The tureen would make a great centerpiece for the glass-topped dining table, and the bowl would add a jolt of color to the kitchen counter.

After making a note to buy a few faux oranges to place in the bowl, I carried my coffee out onto Imogene’s deck and took in the view. The tide had ebbed; the pilings holding up the boat docks were wet to the knees where the water had recently lapped, and as usual, the familiar, pervasive odor of fish hung in the air. Chugging along slowly, a Boston Whaler headed for the Gulf, its cabin roof bristling with fishing rods. A sunny calm day, perfect for an outing.

The peaceful scene, the quiet atmosphere, made it hard to believe that only a few miles away two men had been brutally murdered. And here I’d been fluffing pillows and arranging pink pottery when I should be helping Rossi. But how? Besides, he didn’t want my help. He wanted me safe.

Only yesterday, while he quizzed me about finding Hugo’s remains, he’d said, “Until this is over, I want you to stay out of the mall.”

“I can’t promise that,” I told him. “You’re forgetting about my business. I have to get to my venues.”

“You’ve already been assaulted here, and two men have been killed. What’s it take to convince you?”

“I have complete trust in you, Rossi. You’ll find who did it—no question you will.”

“I’m not interested in flattery. Your stubbornness is making my job harder. Do you understand? Harder.”

“That’s not my intent. I promise I’ll come to the mall as seldom as possible, and I’ll tell Sandra at the front desk which shops I’m visiting.”

“Terrific. So if someone kills you, I’ll know exactly where to look.”

“Oh come on, loosen up. The mall isn’t shutting down,” I said, crossing my fingers and hoping for a self-fulfilling prophesy. “People will be in and out every day. So why not me?”

“Because I love you,” he said, and without waiting for a response, he got up, turned on his heel and stalked off.

And that was the last I’d seen of him. Or heard. He hadn’t stopped by last night or called. Busy and angry. Both. He’d probably caught a couple of hours’ sleep at the station, or maybe he’d gone home to Countryside—his quiet East Naples neighborhood—for the night. Whatever the reason for his silence, I missed him.

As for his declaration of love, I was numb all over. I reveled in the knowledge, but it scared me too. Though Rossi had picked the least romantic time and place to put his feelings into words, that meant he’d want to talk about a commitment next, and that worried me more than taking chances at the mall. I’d once had what I thought was the perfect marriage. As I later learned, it wasn’t perfect, but it was superb while it lasted. That Rossi was my second chance at happiness, I had no doubt. But suppose I seized the golden ring again and it slipped through my fingers a second time? What then?

With a sigh, I tossed the coffee dregs over the railing and went inside.